


I Saw Lon Cheney Jr Walking With The (Drag) Queen

by scarletjedi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Complete, Derek loves The Hulk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Season 2, metaphors with Marvel Movies, mostly comfort, stiles's favorite musical artist is P!nk, surprise angst?, the hurt comes from the canon, therapy through drag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles is entered in an Amateur Drag Competition, he thinks it's just what he needs to recharge his batteries after everything that's happened. He never accounted for just how much performing as someone else will make him confront himself. Something has to change, because as Ru says, "if you can't love yourself, how the hell can you love somebody else?"</p><p>Can I get an amen? Let the Music Play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So What?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas raving_liberal and proxydialogue! 
> 
> Title comes from Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London"
> 
> Quote comes from _RuPaul's Drag Race_. there will be many references to _RuPaul's Drag Race_. I can just feel it.
> 
> Rating for later chapters.
> 
> You want more of me? Want to see my ramblings, fan works, and sneak peaks? Or is a story you love not updated when you expect it to be? Check out my [tumblr](scarletjedi.tumblr.com) for status updates and more!

Sometime early during summer break, Stiles realized that his best friends were either werewolves or drag queens. After everything that had happened this past year, he’d had it up to here with werewolves and hunters and Kanimas, and resigned himself to vacuuming glitter off the floor of his jeep from now until the rest of eternity. 

Not that Stiles could ever really leave the werewolves behind. Really—Scott would never survive without him, even if he was getting all chummy-chummy with Isaac now, and Lydia was finally starting to see him as a real person (and honestly, he was now seeing her as less of a crush and more of a friend, which was good in the face of her Epic Love with Jackson). Erica was still the Catwoman to his Batman, and Derek...

Lets just say that Stiles’s feelings on the matter were complicated. And anyway, it was his turn to save Derek’s life so he had to pay _some_ attention, but...

That didn’t mean he couldn’t take a break over the summer. Dive back into the werewolf shenanigans once school started again. So, his summer now consisted of late nights, ladyboys, and just enough video games with Scott to keep him from getting suspicious. There was a complicated algorithm that dictated time spent with Scott vs ability to sneak time with drag queens. Really. Stiles had a chart. 

Anyway, it was all Crystal’s fault. 

Stiles was driving home from a Pack meeting at Derek’s, alone because Scott had ditched him for Allison _again_ (and he didn’t blame Scott, really. If Stiles had found his one-and-only, he’d do everything he could to keep it from imploding, too), when he saw Crystal Titz, the headliner from the club. She wasn’t in drag, obviously, but Stiles didn’t know anybody else that could look that fierce half-soaked and stalking down the side of the road. 

Stiles pulled up next to her, rolled his window down, and said, “Hey, Sailor. Goin’ my way?” 

Crystal held up a hand, like she was shading her eyes from the sun. “Stiles?” she asked. 

“Yeah!” Stiles unlocked his door. “Get in, it’s miserable out here.” 

Crystal was in the jeep before Stiles finished speaking. Stiles rolled the window back up and reached into the back to get the towel he kept for the odd werewolf water-related incident. Crystal took it with a grateful smile, and Stiles started to drive again. 

“Thank you,” Crystal said, rubbing the towel over her head. 

Stiles shrugged it away. “What’re you doing out in this?” 

Crystal rolled her eyes. “Date gone wrong,” she said. “I thought the rain would hold off, but...” 

Stiles grimaced. “Ooh. Sucks,” he said. “Your place, then?” 

“Please.” 

Stiles nodded and flipped on his blinker to turn down the street that would take him to Crystal’s apartment. The radio came back from commercials, and as Crystal dried herself off as best as she could, Stiles found himself singing along. 

It was no secret that Stiles sang in his car; Stiles was a car-singer. He was also a shower-singer and an ear-phone-hum-along-er. It was not uncommon for Stiles to realize he’d been singing along with the radio for the last three songs and to have no conscious memory of it. So really, it wasn’t like he was _trying_ or anything. Just... his ear heard something familiar, and his mouth moved along. 

And when his mouth moved, his head moved. And when his head moved his arms moved. And when his arms moved... well, it was all over. By the time they were back in town, Stiles was belting out _“Just when it can’t get worse/I’ve had a shit day/you’ve had a shit day/we’ve had a shit day!”_ and was really into it because it was P!ink and fuck you, P!ink was awesome, and Crystal was staring at him. 

Stiles stopped mid-chorus. “What? It’s P!nk.” Stiles pointed. “I dare you to have P!nk on the radio and not sing along.” 

Crystal held up her hand. “Easy there, boy. I’m just thinking.” 

Warning bells went off in Stiles’s mind, and he was momentarily grateful that his warning systems were still calibrated to pick up non-werewolf related threats. But he was trapped in the car, so when Crystal said, “You know what? There’s an Amature Drag Night contest at the club next Friday. You should enter,” Stiles was just glad that there were no supernatural threats involved. It took a moment for the words to sink in. 

Stiles gaped. “What... I... really?” 

Crystal nodded. “Definitely. You definitely have the physicality for it.” She grinned. “The girls and I can give you a hand with your look. It’ll be fun!” 

“And I guess that it doesn’t matter that I’m under eighteen?”

Crystal leveled him with a look. “It’s never mattered before.” 

“Fair enough.” Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You just want to play dress up with your very own Stiles-doll.” 

Crystal’s grin was wicked. “Of course.” She opened the door and Stiles look around. They were stopped in front of Crystal’s apartment. And what’s more, the rain had stopped. Sonofabitch. 

Stiles really had to get a handle on this automatic action thing. Seriously. 

“See you tomorrow night!” Crystal called through the window, and Stiles stuck his head out of his side to call back: 

“You can’t just co-opt my time, you know! I could have plans!” 

Crystal waved a hand over her shoulder. “No you don’t.” 

“No,” Stiles muttered as he started his jeep. “No, I don’t.” 

The next morning, Crystal texted him with the instructions to bring his rock band controllers, (which Stiles saw right through, by the way) and an alibi for the night. Crystal greeted Stiles at the door with a glass of something pink and fruity and 80% vodka and Stiles was suddenly a lot more on board with this idea. 

One drink in, and he was mostly convinced he’d have fun. 

Two drinks, and and it was almost a good idea. 

While Lois Carmen Denominator, Sugar Snatch, and Barb Wyre blasted out “Don’t Stand So Close To Me”, Crystal sat Stiles down in front of her, and opened her make-up tackle box. 

The waxy-crayon scent of the makeup heavy in his nose, Stiles found himself relaxing into Crystal’s hands. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, enough that he was not _quite_ as drunk as he had been, but still drunk enough that when Sugar and Barb pulled him from Crystal and pressed the mic into his hand, he sang his heart out to The Sounds— “Living in America.” 

When he finished, dropping the mic like a true superstar, the other queens were watching him with self-satisfied expressions. 

“What?” Stiles said. 

Crystal wrapped her arm around Stiles’s shoulder. “We are going to make you a winner.” 

The next morning, Stiles was just glad his dad was stuck at work, because he really didn’t want to explain his slept-on-make-up face. 

Stiles had never been happier that all was quiet on the werewolf front, because the next week was all drag queens, all the time. On Monday, Barb put him in heels and made him walk, and walk, and walk. On Tuesday, Sugar met him for coffee and they went through Stiles’s iPod looking for a good song. Wednesday, Lois, who was the closest to Stiles in size, took him through her closet, and they put together his look. Thursday, Crystal took him to the club before hours and made him rehearse until his feet hurt and his muscles ached and shook like they never had for lacrosse. Thursday night, he got home and iced himself up, lay on the couch half-covered with heating pads, and watched a marathon of _Duck Dynasty_ (it started because he didn’t want to move to get the remote, but by episode three, he was hooked). He must have fallen asleep, because he woke when his father sat next to him, asking if he had to hunt anybody down. 

The lie came too easily. “Nah,” Stiles said. “Just, lacrosse practice, you know? Thought I could do more than I could.” 

His dad patted his shoulder and disappeared into his office. The guilt lasted just long enough for Stiles to remember that this secret involved glitter and duct tape, not fur and fangs, and what his father didn’t know wouldn’t hunt him in the night. It didn’t hurt that, if his dad _did_ learn this secret, he might stop looking for others. 

Friday night dawned with the promise of heat. Stiles lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Tonight, he was going to go on stage and pretend to sing while dressed as a woman. He had a feeling that he should be weirded out more than he was, but honestly, even without all the supernatural weirdness, he had done stranger things. There was a very good reason why his (and Scott’s!) picture was behind the security booth at the mall. 

Stiles checked the time. 8:13 am. He sighed. He had to be at the club by 2, show starting at 10. Apparently, there was a group number they had to rehearse, like _Miss America_. 

Thank God his dad had the night shift today. 

***

That Stiles hadn’t broken an ankle in his heels was nothing short of a miracle. He made a mental note to thank Barb for her crash course, because he’d never be able to do his _own_ act, let alone the group number, without her tutoring. In fact, he almost walked _better_ in heels; he certainly fell down less. Maybe he’d send a fruit basket. 

Still, it wasn’t a bad idea to keep his ankles in fighting trim. Which was why, once he’d wiggled into his body-shaping undergarments (Lois had give him some _hips_ , and a severe case of junk-in-trunk. Surprisingly, she hadn’t gone as large with his chest. “You need the illusion of curves,” Lois had said. “Your shoulders are broad enough, we needed to balance them. And trust me, if you’re not used to them, large tits just get in the way. You’re a physical performer, you don’t want to be hampered by your chest.” Stiles had to admit she had a point. Breasts were _strange_ from this angle), his legs were up on the chair in front of him, ice packs draped over his ankles, while Crystal did his makeup. Stiles wasn’t the only one getting his makeup done for him, but it didn’t escape his notice that most of the others did their own. So Stiles paid very close attention to everything Crystal did, memorizing brush sizes and shades and technique. 

Really, it wasn’t much different than some of the Halloween costumes Stiles had pulled off in previous years. If he could turn himself and Scott into realistic zombies for three years running, he was sure he could turn himself into a woman for the night. Crystal had seemed dead set on doing this for him, though. Maybe she had a bet or something. 

“Close your eyes,” Crystal said and Stiles tried to stay as still as possible as Crystal painted and painted and painted his eyes. “Okay,” she said. “Don’t look. We’re going to put on your wig.” 

Stiles nodded. The wig stocking had been the first thing on his head; he’d argued that his hair was short enough, that he didn’t need it, but Crystal had just said, “You’ve seen how short my hair is. You’re wearing the damned stocking.” Stiles had thrown up his hands, and now Crystal was moving him, helping him settle the wig onto his hair, tucking ends in, and waiting as Crystal sat back and looked. 

“Alright,” she said. “Open your eyes.” 

He did, and they widened. “Woah,” Stiles said, and Crystal beamed. He looked like a _girl_ , which was the whole point, but he was a _pretty_ girl. That surprised him. Crystal had shaded the sides of his face, but not as much as he had been expecting. Though, Sugar’s bitching last week about Stiles’s cheekbones made much more sense now. She’d give him a rosy glow, and had, somehow, managed to not cover up his moles. But the kicker was his eyes: Crystal’d gone all out and they looked huge, like he was some kind of Disney princess. If woodland critters started singing along while he was on stage, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised. 

The wig was short, spiked, and platinum blonde. It was short enough, honestly, that Stiles had initially worried that he would look too boyish. But the shading had changed the shape of his face enough that he looked like a chick-with-attitude. His lips looked full and wet and kinda-sexy/kinda-obscene, and he was _working_ it. He bit his lower lip as he grinned, nose scrunching. _Aww, yeah!_

Crystal snorted behind him and said, “Get dressed. You’re on in twenty.” Stiles stood; in heels he was taller than Crystal, and he grinned at her for a second before hustling over to pull on his clothes. Stiled hummed to himself as he dressed in a tight tank top, hacked off at the bottom of his ribs with a pair of scissors, and a pair of incredibly tight short-shorts that made it _very obvious_ that Lois had insisted he learn how to tuck. 

Stiles had drawn the line at having them show him. The first person-other-than-him to touch his penis would be doing so only in a sexy-times capacity of the let’s-have-marathon-sex-in-all-the-positions-just-to-make-sure-Stiles-isn’t-a-virgin-anymore-plus-two-more kind of way. 

Yeah. That’s right. Stiles had _plans_. 

And besides, those kinds of tutorials were why YouTube was _made_. Three hours later, Stiles had graduated from horror to looking at himself in the full length mirror, saying “You want to fuck me?” until he realized that he was pulling a Buffalo Bill from _Silence of the Lambs_ and tore the duct tape off harder than was necessary. 

Stiles paused at the memory, grimacing, then shrugged on the short red hoodie Lois had found for him in the back of her closet. It was tight around his chest, especially now that his chest was bigger, and stopped just about where his tank top did. Stiles zipped it up, then rolled his eyes and brought the zipper down, showing off his illusion of cleavage. He smirked. Hot. A few bangles on his wrists, rings on his fingers, clip on hoop earrings (which pinched like a _motherfucker_ ), and a giant fucking gold chain with a “ladyboy” medallion completed the look. 

Stiled looked at himself—herself?—and stared. He was about to go onstage in front of everybody. He should be frightened. Wasn’t this the kind of thing that scared boys his age? 

Except...

It was way less frightening than having your best friend turn into a werewolf and try to kill you. Nowhere near as frightening as Jackson got during his godzilla phase. It didn’t hold a candle to Gerard fucking Argent. Or the Alpha Pack. Or the dozens of other beasties he fought, and fought with, on a regular basis. This? This was _cake_

Crystal appeared in the mirror behind his left shoulder. “You look good.” 

Stiles grinned, forcing back any lingering anxiety. “I always look good.” It was empty boasting. Stiles very rarely thought he looked good; he always looked like Stiles, no more, no less. But tonight, he had to admit, he looked _good_. It was a surprising boost in confidence to find out he made a hot girl. 

Crystal laughed. “Go with that. Break a leg out there,” she said. “And don’t fuck it up.” 

Stiles laughed, but nodded, then the stage manager called his name and he went to get into position. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen and everything in between, let’s give it up for Little Red!”

The music started and Stiles bounced onto stage, his usual spastic movement turned into dancing by the music and the lights and the energy of the crowd. He hit every step, got every movement, and when the lyrics began, he was right there with P!ink: 

_Na na na na na na na na na na na na_  
 _I guess I just lost my husband,_  
 _I don't know where he went,_  
 _So I'm gonna drink my money,_  
 _I'm not gonna pay his rent,_  
 _I got a brand new attitude and_  
 _I'm gonna wear it tonight,_  
 _I wanna get in trouble,_  
 _I wanna start a fight,_  
 _na na na na na na na I wanna start a fight,_  
 _na na na na na na na I wanna start a fight._

The first verse came out so easy. He didn’t have to worry about his voice, whether or not he could hit the notes, or his tone, or _whatever_ ; all he had to worry about were the words. And he _knew_ the words. He knew them cold. And as he “sang” along, he could feel the energy pumping in his veins, like when he sang along, and he let himself go, let himself move with the music and just rock the fuck _out_. 

He raised his fist high in the air. 

_So, so what_  
 _I'm still a rock star,_  
 _I got my rock moves,_  
 _And I don't need you,_

He thought of Scott, his best friend in absentia, who’d rather hang with his wolf-buddy Isaac than with Stiles. 

_And guess what,_  
 _I'm having more fun,_  
 _And now that we’re done,_  
 _I'm gonna show you tonight,_

He thought of Lydia, his redheaded angel, who’d never be more than a pipe-dream. 

_I'm alright,_  
 _I'm just fine,_  
 _And you're a tool,_

If Stiles had been singing, his voice would have cracked. As it was, he knew the pain he was feeling flashed across his face, but he pushed it back, forced himself to rock. This song was a victory!

_So, so what,_  
 _I am a rock star,_  
 _I got my rock moves,_  
 _And I don't want you tonight._

Because Stiles _was_ a rock star. He was awesome! He had mad research skills. He could work the mountain ash like nobody’s business. He’d saved everybody at one point or another though quick thinking and a willingness to throw himself in front of the (metaphorical) bullet. So what if he never got any credit? or any thanks? _So. What._

_(Uh check my flow, aw)_  
 _The waiter just took my table,_  
 _And gave it to Jessica Simps (shit!),_  
 _I guess I'll go sit with drum boy,_  
 _At least he'll know how to hit,_  
 _What if this song's on the radio,_  
 _then somebody's gonna die,_  
 _I'm gonna get in trouble,_  
 _My ex will start a fight,_  
 _na na na na na na na he's gonna start a fight,_  
 _na na na na na na na_

Stiles arched his back, throwing his hands wide. _We're all gonna get in a fight!_

The music shifted and Stiles bent forward, hunched over, and sang to the past few months. 

_You weren't there,_  
 _You never were,_  
 _You want it all,_  
 _But that's not fair,_

Was is too much to ask for a little recognition? For a little “thank you, Stiles?” Or even a little support? When would it be Stiles’s turn, huh? 

_I gave you life,_  
 _I gave my all,_  
 _You weren't there,_  
 _You let me fall._

It was all coming to the surface in ways that he _never_ wanted. _Where the fuck were you when I needed you, Scott?_ Stiles threw his hands up, as if if he could physically push away the mess of his emotions, continuing simply because that’s what his body did when the music played. 

_No, no, no, no_  
 _I don't want you tonight,_  
 _You weren't there,_  
 _I'm gonna show you tonight,_  
 _I'm alright,_  
 _And you're a tool,_  
 _And you’re a tool,_  
 _So, so what,_  
 _I am a rock star,_  
 _I got my rock moves,_  
 _And I don't want you tonight!_

The crowd was going crazy, crazier than he’d ever seen at a winning lacrosse game, and he fed off of it, soaking it up and turning it out as he strut across the stage, ending on a sneer as he strut offstage. 

He felt kinda shocky. He hadn’t expected that kind of... of emotional honesty. 

Crystal was on him before he was off the steps. “Where the fuck was that in rehearsal?” she demanded. “Oh, nevermind, you were amazing!” 

Stiles forced a grin, wiggling his eyebrows. “That’s what they say.” And really, now that the shock of it was fading, Stiles felt... good. Lighter. Like he had confessed something. It was a rush.

Crystal snorted and tugged him along. “Come on. We’ve got to get you cleaned up for the finale.” 

Stiles was still amped up during the finale, and he sailed through it with an ease he hadn’t expected. He had a lot of fun tonight, and really thought he’d be sad when it was over. 

At last, they were all called to the stage for the awards to be given. Stiles stood in the line-up, and waved at Crystal and the girls in the audience. He was so focused on his own happy, that he almost missed the announcement. 

“And the winner is... Little Red!” 

Stiles froze, jaw dropping, and the ladyboy behind him had to push him forward to accept the tiara. Because of course he got a taira. He ducked his head to let the MC put the tiara on his wig, and he waved at the crowd as the MC said, “Little Red wins a grand prize of one thousand dollars and a slot in our variety hour every Thursday for six performances, right here at the Jungle.” 

Stiles froze. _What?_

“You can see her next Thursday at eight!”

_What?!_

***

Honestly, once the shock had worn off, it didn’t take Stiles long to get behind the idea. He _liked_ performing, and he was starting to realize he was damn good at doing it with tits and heels. 

Still, that meant some things had to change. The thousand dollars was in cash, which was great because that meant he didn’t have to go through his dad to get a check cashed. One hundred went straight into his wallet for gas for his jeep. Another two hundred was added for the shopping he’d need to do to get ready for his six week engagement. The rest went into his sock drawer for emergencies. 

Okay. Crystal and the others were proud of him, and had told him that while they’d help, the bulk of the work was now on him. He had agreed, begged Lois for the sweatshirt for a few more gigs, and bought them all a round of drinks (Well, he gave the money to Barb to buy the drinks, but still).

Stiles rolled out of bed just shy of noon and made a list of things he’d need to do today: 

_1\. buy makeup_  
2\. buy clothes  
3\. pick songs  
4\. ?  
5\. rule the world. 

Stiles looked at the list, nodded, and tucked it into his wallet along with the cash. Crystal said she and Lois would help him shop for clothes today. Which meant he had to shower. 

His stomach growled. After food. 

***

They started at the Goodwill, looking for basic pieces they could buy and alter for their purposes that also wouldn’t break Stiles’s bank. 

The clothes shopping was actually kind of fun, once he got past the odd looks from the sales clerk. Lois took over once inside the store, rejecting hanger after hanger out of hand by some complicated alchemy that Stiles couldn’t parse. Finally, Lois saw his look and said, “We’re looking for structure in the garment itself.” She held up a blouse that had been rather obviously tailored for a woman with a small waist and a large bust. “See this? Even on the hanger it has tits. You, who has about as much tit as this hanger, needs the same illusion.” 

“Isn’t that was the padded bra is for?” 

“It helps,” Crystal said. “But it’s best if every piece works towards the same goal. So you can also look for form-fitting. Nothing drapey.” Crystal looked Stiles over. “And aim for at least one size smaller than you think you need.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, but dove into the racks himself. Finally, he found a baby tee with a cartoon wolf. He held it up to his chest. It would be tight, but it would fit. He turned to show off his prize, and saw Lois and Crystal watching him, arms piled high. Lois pointed to the changing room and Stiles’s face fell. That was... a lot of clothing. 

“March,” Lois said. 

Stiles marched. 

If Stiles anticipated having any kind of say in the matter, he was sorely mistaken. Apparently, he hadn’t been too far off the mark when he had compared himself to My Size Barbie, but the trip ended with several outfits that even Stiles had to admit looked good. 

He even named a few of them. The was Cowgirl Barbie (frilly denim skirt under a plaid western-shirt that Stiles learned he was supposed tie up under his “bust”), Wild Child (patent-leather mini-skirt that he’d wear with the tank top from his first performance. He had considered calling this one the “Erica” but had decided against it), Stiles-ina (girls jeans, a fitted flannel shirt, and the wolf-shirt. With the red-sweatshirt it hit a little close to home. That may have been the real selling point), Gaga (a two-piece swimsuit with little skulls with bowties. The look Lois gave him when he pulled back the curtain was reason enough, even if he never wore it on stage), Tank Girl ( _he found the bullseye shirt!_ That alone was enough for him, but he also found a pair of those colored jeans in yellow that he planned to cut off. He even had a pair of goggles from Halloween two years ago). The best though, in his opinion, were the second-hand Halloween costumes, Wonder Woman, cheerleader, and the “Big Bad Wolf.” He had found a Batgirl costume and had nearly thrown a fit when it was too small. 

It’s possible he might have gotten a little too into it. 

Seven o’clock saw Stiles stagger home, weighed down by the bags from TJ Maxx, Marshalls, Goodwill, and Walgreens. Crystal had told him what to look for and sent him into the Walgreens to get his own makeup while she and Lois walked down the street to the Goodwill to get a head start. 

Stiles had stared at the makeup displays for a good five minutes before he had grabbed a basket and had thrown one of everything he could remember Crystal using, and double that in eyeliner. The cashier had raised her eyebrow at him, but Stiles had just shrugged and said it was for a movie he was making with his friends. 

The clothes went straight into his closet and the makeup went with his laptop into the bathroom. He had found several tutorials on YouTube, and after a moment’s search, began to experiment. 

A little after 10, Stiles got a text from Scott asking if he wanted to come over and play Mario Kart. Stiles texted back a quick yes and went to work scrubbing his face with cold cream. 

That night was the first hint that this might be harder than Stiles had anticipated. Isaac was there as well, which was fine, really. Stiles liked Isaac. But when he sat next to Stiles on the couch he frowned, sniffing at the back of Stiles’s jawline where he might had missed a spot with the cold cream. 

But Isaac didn’t say anything, and Stiles left that night still in possession of his new secret, but very aware that he’d probably have to avoid the wolves on Thursdays, and maybe Fridays too, for the next few weeks. 

Stiles was grateful that he kept everything hidden as a matter of course, the makeup even under a layer of dirty laundry to confuse werewolf senses, because Tuesday night he spun around in his computer chair to see Derek climbing through his window. 

“ _Jesus jumping—_ ” Stiles flailed and nearly fell off his chair. “ _What_ are you doing here?” 

“You haven’t been around,” Derek said. Stiles waited for him to continue, but Derek just stared at him. 

“That’s it?” Stiles said. “I haven’t been around? No new nasties to research, no body parts to chop off?” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “That was _one time_ ,” he protested, but he didn’t give another reason. Stiles narrowed his eyes. 

“So you stopped by because you what? Missed me?” Derek froze and everything clicked into place. “You did!” Stiles pointed. “You missed me!” He grinned. Derek growled and looked away, but he didn’t deny it. “It’s all right,” Stiles said. “I know I’m awesome.” 

Derek gave Stiles a look, like he knew how much of Stiles’s protestations of greatness were just words. It wasn’t condescending, however. It was like sharing a secret. 

It wasn’t the first secret he shared with Derek. 

Stiles let his grin sink back into something smaller, but no less warm. “Well,” he said. “You found me. What now?” 

Derek just looked at him, and Stiles found himself laughing again. “You have no idea, do you?” 

“I hadn’t really thought that far.” 

“You were so desperate for my company, you came over here _without a plan_.” 

Derek gestured at the window. “I can leave.” 

“Nah,” Stiles said. He looked Derek over. “Have you seen _The Avengers_ yet?” 

Derek raised an eyebrow. “No.” He cleared his throat. “Uh... no, I haven’t.” 

Stiles clapped his hands. “Well then. You’re sure there’s no werewolf-related problems on the horizon?” 

Derek just raised the other eyebrow. Stiles waved it off. “Right, right. Your betas have your number, blah blah.” He stood. “Come on, we’ll use the TV in the living room. It’s bigger.” Stiles turned to leave the room, but stopped in the doorway as something occurred to him. He spun, jumping slightly as Derek was _much closer_ than he had expected. 

Stiles, however, was a performer now. The show must go on. No matter how close Derek was. Or how warm. Or how good he smelled. “Have you seen the other films?” 

Derek shifted, almost but not quite fidgeting. “I saw both of the Hulk movies” he admitted. “I liked the Ed Norton one better.” 

Stiles blinked when Derek said nothing else. “That’s it? You’ve only seen... well, of course you like the Hulk best, what with the not-liking when angry and the sad walking-away music. Okay. We’re not watching _The Avengers_. We have to start earlier than that. _Iron Man_. We’ll work our way though.” Stiles spun back, letting his mouth run a commentary about how amazing the whole Avengers franchise was turning out to be (the genius marketing, the brilliance of running the storytelling in the movies like the comics, where the story is told over a web of movies as opposed to a straight series), while his brain measured how much popcorn was in the kitchen and if the Twizzlers were still in the back of the pantry. 

He set up the DVD to play through the previews as Derek sat on the couch, and then ran, cooking popcorn and grabbing the Twizzlers and sodas, scurrying back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, still talking. When he finally sat next to Derek with the large bowl of popcorn, Derek looked faintly shell shocked, but he also looked kinda amused and something that could have been indulgent. 

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but Derek just reached over and snagged a soda and a handful of popcorn, and relaxed back into the couch. It was almost as if he were a real person. Sometimes, Stiles forgot that Derek really wasn’t that much older than he was. This was... good. 

Stiles relaxed and grabbed a Twizzler, letting it hang from his mouth as he grabbed his controler. He pressed play.


	2. Cuz I Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’ll cash my checks, and place my bets, and hope I always win. Even if I don’t I’m fucked because I live a life of sin.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to proxydialogue, who helped me figure out what was wrong with my characters even when sleep deprived, and raving_liberal, who is simply all kinds of awesome.

Stiles staggered into the kitchen on Sunday morning to find a distinct lack of eggs, oatmeal, cereal, and fruit... pretty much everything breakfasty was notably in short supply. The milk was just shy of sour and they had no orange juice. Stiles sighed. Looked like he was grocery shopping today.

He poured himself a cup of yesterday’s coffee, pulled on the first pair of jeans he found not covered in mud, blood, or make up (don’t ask), and drove to the supermarket. Sunday mornings were a surprisingly good time to shop granted he got there before the churches let out, so it was easy to grab a basket and start wandering the aisles.

Stiles had a system for navigating the store, adapted from the pattern his mother had taken. Even before chemo-brain had played with her memory, Stiles’s mom was... not scatterbrained per say, but easily distracted, much like Stiles himself. A list of four items would turn into a bill for twenty-three. He had inherited more from his mom than his eyes.

She had started teaching him young, before he had ever heard of ADD or Adderall. Bath time happened in a certain order. Cooking started with pulling out all the ingredients needed. Saying “I’m locking the door” as she locked the door. Starting at the bread-end of the supermarket and working her way through dried goods to produce to frozen foods. It helped to focus her, to keep her on the task at hand.

Stiles grabbed bread (“Healthy Heart” whole wheat) and bagels (everything), and looked longingly at the cupcakes, but his father shouldn’t be eating them, and now Stiles had to make sure he fit into his altered clothing. No cupcakes.

He paused at the end of the section. There was a package of just two cupcakes. He could have just two cupcakes. He grabbed the cupcakes.

Cupcakes.

Stiles mouthed the word as he walked into the next aisle, feeling its meaning scatter to the wind with the repetition. Cup. Cakes. Weird. Huh. 

Paper goods. Paper plates were on sale; he grabbed some.

Pet supplies. Stiles hesitated at the end of the aisle, tempted to look for something to fuck with Scott with, but moved on. He was still too pissed at Scott to bait him; anything Stiles came up with would be petty and hurtful, and there had been enough hurt already.

He wondered if Scott noticed.

He moved on.

Automotive. Pass.

Baby supplies. Pass.

Cosmetics. Stiles ducked down the aisle. He needed more cold cream, and a few other things for his after-show care. He was almost out of shampoo, too. He paused in front of the “manly-men” shampoo bottles. Normally, he picked up whatever was cheapest, but… he grabbed a bottle of Old Spice and read the back. They really should advertise how effective the shampoo was for washing blood out of hair, because it was a bitch once it dried.

Then again, not many people had to wash blood out of their hair on a regular basis.

Maybe he should investigate what butchers used.

Stiles frowned at the bottle and put it back on the shelf. He reached for the White Rain and paused, looking back. He started avoiding strong fragrances in his shampoo and soap after Scott turned; he said the chemical smell was overpowering. He picked up the Old Spice shampoo. Overpowering enough to cover the linger scent of foundation and colored powders.

Perfect.

Stiles dropped it into his basket and moved on to the lotions. He was glad the store was as empty as it was, but he was pretty sure nobody would really pay attention to him; he had a reputation for odd behavior and as long as it wasn’t blatantly dangerous or illegal, nobody would call his dad.

Anyway, that meant when Stiles saw Mrs. Franklin, the librarian, watching him suspiciously as he compared toners, he didn’t think much of it. Nor did he think twice when Mrs. Franklin pulled Mrs. Thompson, his little old neighbor, to her and spoke quietly in her ear as Stiles considered nail polish. So far he’d gone without, but he was considering press-ons.

He cocked his head. Could he pull off “rebellious teen” enough to get away with painting his own nails?

Well, he didn’t have to keep it for long, just for the show. That’s what nail polish _remover_ was for. He grabbed a bottle of red, a bottle of black, and a bottle of “ammonia free” remover, and set them on top of the bagels so they wouldn’t fall through the cart. Maybe he’d play around tonight, get a look going, once his dad left for work.

Stiles nodded to himself, excited about the prospect, and pushed the cart to the end of the aisle, smiling at Mrs. Franklin and Mrs. Thompson. “Hello, ladies,” Stiles said with a grin.

They wouldn’t look at him.

Stiles’s grin fell. It wasn’t that they didn’t notice him; they were very carefully looking everywhere but at him as they stopped their conversation and rushed down the aisle in the opposite direction. “Rude,” Stiles said to himself, hurt.

But it was when Mrs. Thompson looked back over her shoulder, and Stiles could see _fear_ in her face, that he felt the pit of his stomach turn to stone.

She was afraid of _him_.

Two years of werewolves, trying so hard to keep up, to help, to prove that he _wasn’t the weakest link_ , with late night visits and blood and his fucked-up jeep and actual minor criminal record… he never stopped to really think about what the neighbors must think.

Stiles pushed the cart on, trying to convince himself that is was only them, that most of the town still saw him as the hyperactive-but-harmless son of the sheriff.

But he found avoided glances in the pasta aisle, blatant ignoring by the cereal. The butcher took three orders before his even when he was next in line. He left whispers by the peanut butter.

“What is wrong with everyone!” he wanted to scream. “How blind are all of you that you don’t notice when your town is overrun with werewolves! How can you not see that _I’m on your side!_!”

But he couldn’t, because secrecy was the name of the game, and he realized he was just going to have to live with this. There was nothing he could do, no way to explain his actions. And the only way to change opinions was to change his life, and he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t leave his pack high and dry, even if he couldn’t really be around them right now.

So, he swallowed the words and the wonder if maybe being human wasn’t enough anymore, if he had doomed himself to some life in-between, not human enough for the neighbors, not wolf enough for the pack, and paid for his groceries without meeting anybody’s eye.

Derek’s desire to hide in the woods had never made more sense.

 

***

Wednesday night was Stiles’s “spin control video game night” at Scott’s. He made sure to shower twice, washing his hair with his new shampoo, after soaking his fingertips in the nail polish remover to make sure he got all of it off. He still hadn’t decided on a look for this week. He _had_ been planning to wear the cowgirl look while singing “Trouble,” but some of the lyrics hit a little too close to home after Sunday’s revelation. He still didn’t know what he was going to sing. When Stiles let himself into the McCall house, he was confident that he smelled like nothing but Stiles.

He took the stairs two at a time, trying to amp himself up even though he’d really rather be anywhere else at this point. If Scott hadn’t been dumb enough to… well, _pick one_ , his mom wouldn’t have taken his head set, and they could have gamed online while Stiles multi-tasked and worked out his set.

Scott’s door was open, he had to have heard Stiles come in, and Stiles found Scott lying on his bed, arms behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. Stiles looked up—no posters, no damage, nothing—and looked back at Scott.

“Well, you look riveted,” Stiles said. Scott sighed.

Stiles closed his eyes. He knew that sigh. That was an “Allison trouble” sigh.” He _so_ didn’t care right now.

He held up his hands. “Whatever it is, I don’t need to know. Let’s just kill some zombies until you feel less like a gothic poet.”

Scott sighed again, growling softly in the back of his throat, but he sat up, and Stiles tossed him a controller as he set up the game, _Left 4 Dead_. He plopped down into Scott’s desk chair, and saw Scott sniff out of the corner of his eye. Stiles ignored the odd look Scott threw him as Scott seemed to shrug off the change in Stiles’s grooming habits. It wasn’t the first time Stiles had taken advantage of Scott’s unquestioning nature, and it wouldn’t be the last. 

They were silent as the title screens came and went, and Stiles wondered what it was that drew them to these kinds of games, especially considering that they lived this life more often than not these days.

In fact, their life would make a pretty badass video game. Or movie… no. _Television show_ , one with lots of angst and sex and drama. Something that would play on the CW, no, on _MTV_. Yeah. Sexy.

Of course, Stiles would be the one guy who never took his shirt off and had a terminal case of the virgins. Because that was his life.

The first thing Scott said was “behind you,” as a horde came upon them. It set the tone, and Stiles let himself be consumed by the game, letting the only words between them be directions and warnings, the back and forth of combat.

Stiles squashed the thought that they were better than they had been, probably because they had practice in real life, that this was the only way they could still communicate.

By the time they made it to the roof of the hospital, fighting their way through the Tank to get to the helicopter, Stiles had almost relaxed into it. This wasn’t so bad. They could still be together in each other’s presence without Stiles wanting to beat Scott for making such a dick decision. Their friendship was rocky, but still there, could still be saved if they put in a little work.

Stiles thought about telling Scott this, about maybe ending the radio silence, the façade they had been playing into, when there was a familiar scratching at the window that screamed “werewolf coming through,” and Isaac climbed inside.

“Hey,” Scott said, never looking away from the screen, and Stiles nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Why the fuck was Isaac there? This was supposed to be Scott and Stiles time, even if they had been nothing but tense and awkward with each other (okay, Stiles had been tense and awkward. Scott had been oblivious). Still! This was _their_ time, no Isaacs allowed. Especially not Isaacs who weren’t subtle about scenting the air and looking like they were going to question Stiles’s life choices. 

Fuck.

Scott had no idea. Stiles stared at Scott, aware that his avatar was dying on screen as he realized that _Scott had no idea_. After everything, Stiles couldn’t believe that he was still overestimating Scott’s emotional intuition when it came to Stiles. He was a freakin’ werewolf, you think he’d be able to _smell it_ or something.

Stiles was slowly losing everything, was patching the holes with drag and song, but it was like trying to stop a leak with mesh, and Scott had no idea that Stiles felt like he was drowning. Or that he was mixing his metaphors.

_Fuck._

The game read game over, offered them the chance to try again, and Stiles stood. Scott looked at him in confusion. “Where you going?”

“Home,” Stiles said, and that was true. “Dad wanted to spend some time with me.” Still true. He would even be home tonight. Still, Scott had that kicked puppy look, like someone had taken his bone and he couldn’t figure out why. Isaac just watched, and Stiles refused to look at him as he grabbed his backpack. “Keep the game. I’ll get it next time,” he said and fled.

Jackson and Lydia were on Scott’s front porch when Stiles opened the door, and he faltered for a step before he plastered a false smile on his face and brushed past them. Lydia was watching him, and if Stiles looked, he might have seen compassion, or understanding, or even hurt, so he didn’t look. He pulled out of Scott’s driveway just as Erica and Boyd walked up.

It occurred to him that it would look like he was running away from the pack. He preferred to think of it as a strategic retreat to regroup.

Stiles’s dad was home when Stiles walked inside, dressed in his pajamas and reading the paper at the kitchen table. It reminded Stiles of the early days after his mom, when his dad could barely drag himself to work.

Stiles had meant to spend time with him, he really did, but seeing him there, like that—Stiles went upstairs without a word, the silence pressing heavier than ever. 

***

Thursday morning, once he was sure his dad was asleep, Stiles pulled out the suitcase at the back of his closet and considered his options.

The “cowgirl” look was out. He’d save that for when he did “Trouble.” Wonder Woman was tempting. Cheerleader wouldn’t work, and he was saving Tank Girl for a specific song.

He wished he had a pimp jacket.

Stiles sighed. He dug deeper and pulled out the leather skirt. Huh. Perfect. “Wild Child” it was.

***

Stiles had exactly zero wigs. He planned on getting at least one after his birthday in a couple weeks, but until then, he was mooching off the girls at the club. He’d considered using the long curly blond wig, but kept thinking he was seeing Erica when he looked out of the corner of his eye. Crystal offered him a brunette wig, but Stiles asked if he could use the same hair as last week. There was something about the spikes that helped him channel P!nk, and he would need all the help he could get tonight.

“Are you okay?” Crystal asked, as Stiles stared into space as he waited for his makeup to set. She was brushing on eye shadow in long sweeping strokes and didn’t look away from the mirror, but Stiles could feel the force of her attention on him.

“Fine,” Stiles said, flashing a grin. He was proud of that grin. He’d fooled werewolves with that grin. He didn’t fool Crystal with that grin. She paused and met his eyes in the mirror. He sighed. “Fine as I can be.”

“What happened, girl?”

“I just…” Stiles sighed, trailing off. “Everything is pretty much shit right now, you know?”

“Hmm,” Crystal said. “I’ve had those days. Weeks. Years.”

Stiles snorted. “There’s a lot I haven’t been telling people in my life,” he began. “This not being the least of it. And it was driven home this weekend the consequences of living a double life.”

Stiles was expecting Crystal to say, “What double life?” because that’s what he would have said, and he didn’t know how he was going to answer, because he didn’t want to tell her that everybody stared at him like he was dangerous now, or that his best friend was leaving him behind, or that his father had all but given up on him. But she didn’t ask. Instead, she said:

“The closet, any closet, is taxing.”

He laughed, low and bitter, because he had joked with Scott about being in the werewolf closet. He’d just never pictured his werewolf closet to have this much glitter. “What do I do?” he said, softly. 

Crystal shrugged. “That’s up to you. But in my opinion? Closets are only good for clothes. No matter how fierce those clothes are, you never need to live with them.”

Stiles smiled. “This isn’t really something I can tell everybody.”

“Then you tell who you can,” Crystal said. “And when it gets too much, you take it, and you put it on stage.” She met his eyes. “And when you do start telling people, remember that drag queens live on gossip, okay?”

“Okay.” Stiles smiled, more real this time, and picked up his brush to finish his look.

***

The stage was dark, and Stiles could hear the crowd rumbling with anticipation. Stiles was following Lois, who had twisted the crowd around her finger with a sultry “Black Velvet,” and it was Stiles’s turn to ramp it back up for Barb, who would set up Crystal.

The guitars started, striking their chords like marching, and Stiles took the stage from the side door, spotlight shining down as he wove through the crowd. His black nails glinted in the spotlight as he moved, arms up and snapping, heeled boot pounding on every beat.

_Hahaha_  
 _We’re gonna rock and roll_  
 _Raa, Raa_

Stiles hit the stage, climbing the stairs as he taunted:

_And I can drink more than you,_  
 _Party harder than you do,_  
 _And my car’s faster than yours too!_

He strut across the stage, feeling the power in the music, and for the first time, really felt like _Little Red_ , and she was _fierce_. Big Bad Wolf better watch out. Heh.

She hit the middle of the stage and stomped, _bam bam_ , into position, feet spread and facing away from the crowd. Hands on her hips, Little Red looked over her shoulder, first left, then right, circling her hips,

_P-I-N-K_  
 _P-I-M-P_

And she turned, facing off against the audience as she let her hips circle all the way back, bending forward with her shoulders back to show off her chest, before completing the circle and standing up straight.

_I'm back again_  
 _I know y'all missed me_

She braced a hand on her stomach, knowing the attention it would draw, her other hand flared out to the side.

_I'm so so sick_  
 _Can't handle it_

She jerked her thumb at her chest,

_Yeah I talk shit_  
 _Just deal with it_

And Little Red had to turn, march across the stage to hide her face, because there was Stiles, sudden and real behind her eyes, but she pushed down the guilt and the confusion and the _worthlessness_ , because:

_My rims are 23 inch_  
 _And they're black on black_  
 _No they're not his_

Because it was _Stiles_ that did it all. _Stiles_ was the one that saved the day, that worked magic on the mountain ash, that solved the riddles and the puzzles, that taught Scott how to control his wolf. _Stiles_ did that, not Scott. Not Derek. _STILES_ , and it was enough to let Little Red punch the air as she sang.

_Diamonds all over my teeth_  
 _You can try and try you can't beat me_

She turned back to the audience, pumping her fist and strutting across the stage:

_So I'll cash my checks and place my bets_  
 _And hope I'll always win_

So much of what Stiles did was half-plan, half-luck, and he knew it, but he would continue because _what other choice did he have?_

_Even if I don't I'm fucked because_  
 _I live a life of sin_

No choice. No matter what he did, _things would go wrong_

_But it's alright_  
 _I don't give a damn_

Lies.

_I don't play your rules I make my own_

And look where that got him.

_Tonight_  
 _I'll do what I want_  
 _Cuz I can_  
 _(ice cream, ice cream, we all want ice cream)_

Little Red stomped, camped it up, even as Stiles floundered, quiet enough for Little Red to sing the next verse, picking a guy in the front row and singing straight to him. The guy looked like he’d gone to heaven, and Little Red ate it up.

_You know I'm rare_  
 _You stop and stare_  
 _You think I care_  
 _I don't_  
 _You talk real loud_  
 _But you ain’t saying nothing cool_  
 _I could fit your whole house in my swimming pool_

But Stiles just _couldn’t shut up,_ and was back in force for the next verse:

_My life's a fantasy_

Yeah, Grimm’s fairy tales.

_That you're not smart enough to even dream_

Because who in their right mind would believe werewolves? He almost didn’t believe it most days.

_My ice is making me freeze_  
 _You can try and try you can't beat me_

Except that they could, they really could, and Stiles had the wounds to prove it. It was enough to make Little Red’s sultry act crack, and she sang the chorus with such an ache.

_So I'll cash my checks and place my bets_  
 _And hope I'll always win_

But the other side was playing with loaded dice.

_Even if I don't I'm fucked because_  
 _I live a life of sin_

It was only a matter of time before Stiles’s luck was up.

_But it's alright_  
 _I don't give a damn_  
 _I don't play your rules I make my own_

And maybe it was time for Stiles to remember that. He was the Spark, he was _human_ , and he was sick and tired of being underestimated.

_Tonight_  
 _I'll do what I want_  
 _Cuz I can_  
 _(ice cream, ice cream, we all want ice cream)_

It was like a breath of air after being underwater, and Little Red grinned at the resolve, letting it flow through her dance as she spoke:

_Uh break it down_  
 _It's tough times out here_  
 _Ya know what i'm saying mmm, hmm_

You have no idea how right it was.

_Yea, I'm super thick_  
 _People say i'm much too chic_

Too human, too _fragile_ , too stupid, too _loud_. The fuck do they know?

_Come and kiss the ring_  
 _You just might learn a couple things_

Let them underestimate him. It’ll be all the better when he shows them up, when they finally remember just what Stiles is capable of.

_I'm trying to school you dog_  
 _Roof, roof, roof, roof, roof, roof, roof_

Stiles smirked with Little Red’s mouth, because dog jokes would never not be funny.

_I'm your worst nightmare_  
 _Bring it we can take it there_  
 _What are you scared?_

Yeah, you should be scared. Stiles was the Wild Card. Quake with fear, you petty fools. Little Red grinned wide, singing with Stiles in triumph. They might be headed down, there might be no other end for his story, but he was going to make the fucking most of it. 

_So I'll cash my checks and place my bets_  
 _And hope I'll always win_  
 _Even if I don't I'm fucked because_  
 _I live a life of sin_  
 _But it's alright_  
 _I don't give a damn_  
 _I don't play your rules I make my own_  
 _Tonight_  
 _I'll do what I want_  
 _Cuz I can_  
 _(ice cream, ice cream, we all want ice cream)_

Little Red struck a pose and Stiles bared his teeth at the crowd’s roar as the lights went down.

***

Crystal gave Stiles an odd look as he passed her backstage. “You okay?” she asked quiet and quick.

“Never better,” Stiles said and flashed his wolf-grin. “A few things just fell into place.”

***

Stiles threw his backpack containing his costume and makeup onto his bed before stripping off the clothes he wore home. Dressed in just his boxers and whatever makeup didn’t wipe away at the club, he went to his shower and turned the water on as hot as it could go.

He felt…

He felt on edge, hyped up, worked into a tizzy, buzzed and jazzed and ready to jump out of his skin. He could feel the energy bubbling up behind his heart and it felt not unlike the onset of a panic attack, a tense vibration just beyond his reach that threatened to choke him, and he laughed, slightly hysterical, because this was the _opposite_ of panic.

For the first time since Gerard threw him out of the house, bloodied and bruised, he felt like he had a plan, a real plan that wasn’t just licking his wounds.

Stiles climbed into his shower, reveling in the shower as it stripped away the sweat and smoke and glitter of the night. It felt like he was shedding his skin, his limbs and chest shiny pink and new after he scrubbed, and he felt like singing, like running, but mostly he felt _clear_ for the first time in months.

The world of Stiles had changed drastically the night he and Scott found half of Laura Hale, the night Scott was bit and werewolves clawed their way out of fantasy. Since then he had been scrambling, trying to stay one step ahead Scott’s wolf and Derek as they both tried to teach Scott control. He fought to stay ahead of the Peter, of the Kanima, of whatever horror was coming next. And he was fighting against Scott, who acted as he always did, without thinking of the consequences. He’d learned a lot, but Stiles knew he still didn’t understand the ramifications of all of his actions, of all of Stiles’s actions and offers.

Stiles would probably die trying to stay just one step ahead.

He needed to gain ground. And to gain ground, he would need information. And power. And allies.

Stiles scrubbed the Old Spice shampoo into his hair and broke it down.

1\. Information  
2\. Power  
3\. Allies

Information he got. Stiles was master of the Google fu, and he’d made enough progress in his groundwork of establishing a network of online informants that most of the information that came through was accurate. He had access to the Argent bestiary.

He would give his left nut for access to Peter Hale’s laptop.

However, the idea of dealing with Peter left the same unpleasant taste in his mouth as the thought of playing nice with Gerard Argent. So… he placed the thought on the back burner. He’d man up if he had to, but only as a last resort.

He could go to Derek, but Stiles had long ago accepted that Derek was also just barely treading water. It was easy to forget that Derek wasn’t that much older than they were. But Stiles remembered Derek as a teenager, had seen him in the station with his Dad when he was a kid. Derek hadn’t seen Stiles, but sometimes Derek would look at him and Stiles could see _that_ Derek, young and lost, looking back at him. Derek didn’t know much more than he did. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if Derek actually knew _less_ at this point.

So, if Stiles asked, Derek would go to Peter. Peter would give the information, but would probably ask why. That would lead back to Stiles and… no.

That, and the idea of using Derek as a means to an end, made his stomach roll. Stiles didn’t have any real proof, and Derek had never said, but Stiles was still his father’s son. He knew how to look at a crime scene and put together clues. Derek’s grief was heavily flavored with guilt, and not all of it was survivor’s guilt. Somebody had used Derek in the past, and Stiles had a pretty good idea who it had been. It made Stiles so mad he wanted to punch the tile until something broke, and he didn’t really care if it was his hand or the tile.

Stiles shivered and turned off the water. He wouldn’t use Derek.

Which left Chris Argent or Deaton.

Chris Argent meant Allison, so Stiles shelved that with going to Peter.

That left Deaton. Deaton, who had been “out of town” all summer. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

But that didn’t change the fact that Stiles needed that information.

Scott and Isaac alternated nights at the clinic. The only night they didn’t work would be next Monday. It would be a breeze to slip in and look around Deaton’s office, see if there was anything there he wasn’t sharing with Stiles. He’d have it read and returned before Deaton came back.

If Deaton came back.

And if Deaton didn’t, well. Then Stiles would need that information even more.

2\. Power.

Stiles had the power of... sarcasm. He had his jeep and his wits and, occasionally, he had a big stick. He’d been successful with the ash, yes, and Deaton had called him a “spark.” But he’d need the information to gain more power in that area.

Stiles had never really been coordinated. He’d tried taking karate lessons as a kid, and after three months had managed to give another kid a black eye and break his own arm. Lacrosse had helped, but he was no Allison. 

He’d once asked his dad to teach him how to shoot. The sheriff had laughed for a solid ten minutes, then, when he’d seen how serious Stiles was, had taken him to the range. Stiles knew how guns worked, could clean them, take them apart, and put them together. He could hit the target, was actually a great shot. Not quite Allison, but then again, he hadn’t been trained from the womb, either. Point was, if he could get his hands on a gun, he could make it work. 

_IF._

Stiles was more likely to get a gun off a fallen hunter when it came to crunch time than he was to actually legally obtain one. His dad would never go for Stiles having a gun of his own, not after everything. So, no. No guns. 

But knives… knives came in a variety of sizes and metals and would allow for Stiles to fight. He made a mental note to check eBay as he dried off and tucked the towel around his waist.

Stiles opened his bedroom door and stopped. Derek stood in the middle of the room, watching the doorway. Derek’s hands were in his pockets, and Stiles’s backpack hadn’t been touched, but Derek had clearly been doing something he felt guilty about, and Stiles raised an eyebrow at him, leaning back against the door jam.

There had been a time when Stiles would have felt panicked at the thought of anybody seeing him in such a state, even the others on the lacrosse team. He was pale, and though he’d filled out a bit the past year, he still looked in the mirror and saw his old scrawny self—well... Stiles guessed he could get away with “lithe” now, but he still wasn’t much like Danny, or Jackson, or even Scott, now. Or Derek, but Derek was a different category altogether. But Stiles was still riding Little Red’s high, could remember the power in his heeled strut, the sex in the way he moved on stage, and the way the crowd had loved him.

Derek wasn’t moving. So, once again, it was up to Stiles.

“I should mark my calendar. The day I surprised the big bad wolf,” Stiles said. It was enough to break Derek of his startled look, and make him scowl. “There you are,” Stiles said, grinning. He pushed away from the door. “I’m getting dressed. So, unless you want to see my bare ass, I’d turn around.”

Derek growled in the back of this throat, his eyes sparking Alpha red so quickly Stiles was pretty sure it was just a trick of the light, but he turned his head. Stiles smirked, even as he filed away Derek’s reaction. It was good to know that, even while Stiles was being an irritant, Derek was willing to stick around.

Stiles still wasn’t entirely sure _why_ Derek was willing to stick around, but based on the last time Derek had just shown up in his room, if he had to guess, he’d bet Derek had been just as lonely as Stiles. And wasn’t _that_ a revelation.

Stiles dressed quickly, partially as a thank you, but mostly because he was naked in the room with Derek, and if it lasted for much longer, Derek would know exactly the kind of dreams Stiles had been having and just who was starring in them. It wasn’t Stiles’s fault that Derek was so crazy-hot, after all, or that being almost-seventeen meant that he was pretty much horny _all the time_ , a situation that was not helped by being surrounded by preternaturally pretty people. 

And Scott, but Scott didn’t count. 

Personally, Stiles blamed Iron Man. If it wasn’t for their movie night last week, Stiles would be able to keep his suspicions that Derek was more than a black hole of bitterness in the realm of fantasy. But Stiles had seen Derek relax, had seen how his silence could be less badass and more social awkwardness, and it made too much sense that Derek was kinda stunted, and might be just as bad at this whole making friends thing as Stiles. That maybe all that hotness had worked _against_ Derek in the past, so Stiles had relaxed, done his best to ignore the hotness of the guy on his couch, and just let himself watch the movie, deciding to lead by example.

They hadn’t gone past the first movie, Stiles insisting that Derek take the time to digest the whole thing, and they’d had a nice talk after about turning tragedy into personal victory.

Stiles believed it could be done. Derek, not so much, and didn’t that just say it all. It hadn’t surprised Stiles, but the confirmation of that was enough that today, when he told Derek he could turn around, Stiles just sat on his bed, knocking his backpack over the other side of the bed, and said, “Long time no see.”

“You said digest,” Derek said. “I’ve been thinking.”

Stiles felt his eyebrow rise. “And? What are your conclusions?”

Derek reached out and grabbed a bucket of popcorn off of Stiles’s desk, the kind they used to sell at Blockbuster that would pop in its own paper bucket, and Stiles realized Derek had brought that with him. This was another social call. Derek shook the bucket and said, “Thor was next, right?”

“Right,” Stiles said. Holy shit. Derek was back for more. Derek wanted to make this a thing. He wanted a thing _with Stiles_. Stiles was _awesome_ at this. “Come on.”

3\. Allies.

_Check._

Once more, Stiles led the way downstairs, only this time, Derek popped the popcorn while Stiles dug out the sodas and the movie. They didn’t talk much during the movie, and Stiles could almost feel Derek get sucked into the story, for all its flaws.

“This movie got a lot of criticism when it came out,” Stiles said as the credits began to roll. “But Tom Hiddleston as Loki was just genius. He really gets that Loki isn’t really evil. He’s just so ruthless, but he has to be, you know? Think about it, in a world of great warriors, Loki’s… not.” And, wow, wasn’t that a big old giant metaphor for Stiles’s life. 

Loki’d even dressed in drag, but Stiles wasn’t going to mention that, lest Derek question what, exactly, was in Stiles’s backpack. 

“He went too far,” Derek said, not looking at Stiles. “He should have known better.”

“How?” Stiles asked, only half talking about Loki.

Derek shook himself and raised an eyebrow. “What you’re saying—he’s just a victim.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but felt his heart skip, then skip harder because he knew Derek would hear, and it was all because he heard the question Derek was really asking. “Don’t put words in my mouth. Loki does nothing but make choices in this and in _The Avengers._ He goes _willingly_ to the dark side; the fact that he consistently has the choice is what makes him so interesting. Because Loki will always make sure that he’s in a position to make a choice, and when he chooses evil he’s a great villain because he had the opportunity to choose good and didn’t.”

Stiles shifted on the couch and answered Derek’s real question, “I refuse to believe that you become a victim because of what other people do to you. You’re only a victim if you let yourself become one.” Because if other people could make you a victim, then that meant _Stiles_ was a victim, and he _refused_. 

Derek’s head snapped to Stiles, and Stiles didn’t know what was in his voice. But he didn’t care; let Derek think what he wanted. Maybe Derek would realize that Stiles _had heard him_. Maybe Derek would realize Stiles was also talking about himself, and Stiles wouldn’t be the only one with that knowledge anymore. 

“I’m crashing,” Stiles said. “You’re welcome to the couch, if you want it, but I’m out.”

Derek watched Stiles for a long moment, but nodded, and slipped out the front door. It might have been the first time Derek ever used that door, but the significance, if any, was lost on Stiles as he dragged himself, exhausted, into bed just a few hours before dawn lit the sky.


	3. What The Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“All my life, I’ve been good, but now…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to raving_liberal for betaing for me! 
> 
> Sorry for the delay, folks, but here you go!
> 
> PSA: I will not be posting next week due to the holiday. Postings will resume the following week at their schedules times.

Friday, Stiles awoke earlier than normal to the sound of the front door closing, then silence. No puttering in the kitchen, no boots on the stairs; his father wasn’t home yet. That meant that it was Derek leaving, which meant that Derek spent the night on his couch.

Well.

Stiles stared up at the ceiling, body heavy in a way that meant it would hurt once he moved, but right now he was comfortable, awake,and _clear_ like he couldn’t remember ever being. He had a plan.

Stiles didn’t know how long he sat there, watching the cobweb in the corner of his ceiling wave in the breeze from his open window, but he heard the front door again, his father’s footsteps in the hall. He sounded tired, moving slowly, and Stiles closed his eyes. It was his fault that his father was stuck at this crummy job.

The TV turned on, and Stiles listened to his father channel surf.

He hadn’t had enough sleep. Stiles knew he hadn’t had enough sleep. He couldn’t go back to sleep.

Downstairs, the TV landed on an infomercial, _You, too, can have the cleaning power of oxygen with OxyClean!_.

Stiles had a plan. It was a badass plan, i.e., a plan to turn himself into a badass. Someone who could keep up with the pack, could run with the wolves and not be turned into a hostage or a _message_. Stiles had seen what the badassification process could do to a person. He saw Scott drift away. He saw Derek lost in his pain and his past. He saw Allison grow bitter.

That wasn’t going to happen to him. No sir. Stiles had enough pain and misery in his life, dammit. Stiles deserved to have some fun. Erica had the right idea: fight hard, play hard.

Well, Stiles had been fighting as hard as he could for years. He’d be fighting just the same for as long as he could.

It was time to party.

***

Stiles didn’t usually return to The Jungle two nights running, but he had that itch under his skin that meant he had to move, and dancing, even his usual flailing about to a beat, was better than sitting at home or running through the woods.

Not counting his drag wear, Stiles didn’t have much in the way of club clothes, but the bouncer recognized him and let him in anyway. He stood just inside the door for a minute, looking around the club. He didn’t recognize anybody, but as he watched he saw a few people look back.

Stiles bit his lip and bounced his head. _Perfect._

He jogged down the stairs, weaving his way over to the bar. He grinned at the bartender, jerking his head in a nod. The bartender looked him over, nodded back, but stayed frustratingly away. Stiles tapped his fingers on the bar. What did it take to get a drink around here.

Stiles craned his neck, looking for Crystal. She’d get a boy a drink.

Speak of the devil; the bartender finally appeared, putting a violently green cocktail in front of him. Stiles looked at it, then up at the bartender, who gestured towards the other end of the bar. A very pretty boy drinking the same thing raised his glass at him.

Oh.

_Oooh_.

So this is what it’s like to get hit on. Stiles grinned, picking up the drink and raising it in acknowledgement. He wrapped his lips around the little straw, sure he looked like a total dweeb when he had to chase it with his tongue, but he didn’t care.

It tasted like victory.

Victory tasted a lot like vodka.

Stiles knew he drank it a little too fast, because it was gone before he was prepared for it to leave him, but as soon as it put it down, there was another drink. This one was red and had a little umbrella and tasted sweet like rum. Stiles popped the cherry into his mouth and pulled out the stem, tied into a knot. It was an easy trick, one he had taught himself one summer with Scott, convinced that those stems would help them land girlfriends. All it had landed them was a severe stomach ache from too many cherries, but Stiles liked to dream.

The red drink gave way to blue gave way to orange and Stiles was drunk. Stiles knew he was drunk. The bartender knew Stiles was drunk, and the next drink was water. Stiles frowned at the glass. Water wasn’t a fun drink. There were no umbrellas, no fruit, no… fun.

Stiles was here for _fun._

Fun like… like _dancing!_

Stiles slid off his stool. The floor felt wobbly, like gravity was totally optional, and since Stiles had a love/hate relationship with that particular force as it was, that could only help him. Leaving his water glass on the bar (empty, he wasn’t an _idiot_ ), Stiles wove his way through the crowd. It was hot, and he closed his eyes against the beat, and he _danced_ , moved in his own little bubble.

Hands grabbed him, and he was pulled back against a firm chest. Stiles leaned into him, a different kind of heat, and let himself be moved by the hands on his waist, his chest. The guy disappeared, and Stiles stumbled, but another took his place, pressed up against his front, and Stiles opened his eyes, saw skin and stubble and sweat, and thought deliberately, _Oh, what the hell._ Stiles hadn’t just been bluffing when he told his father that he could be gay.

_Could_ be. Meaning that he definitely wasn’t _not_ gay, and judging by the way he was loving the way the guy he was dancing with was pressed all up in his business, it was certainly a check in the _not completely straight_ column, either.

Seriously. Stiles felt _awesome_ right now. Too awesome to try and compartmentalize his sexuality right now, anyway. He pressed those thoughts as far back as they could go, which was pretty far when he was this trashed, and let himself dance.

Stiles lost track of how many guys he danced with that night. Or how many drinks he had that night. He barely remembered when Crystal stumbled across him making out with hot guy number whatever, too drunk to get it up but not caring because he was _making out with hot guy number whatever_ , which meant that Stiles _was_ attractive to gay guys, and that he could totally score a hookup once he sobered up.

He didn’t remember the guy’s face, or the way the guy beat it in front of Crystal’s fury. He certainly didn’t remember sending the text to his dad that he’d be spending the night with Scott, though he did find a record of that the next morning when he woke up on Crystal’s couch feeling like something had died in his mouth after taking a pickax to his brain.

Crystal fed him a large greasy breakfast with Tylenol and coffee and a lot of water, and drove him back to the club to pick up his jeep. “Next time you want to go out and act stupid,” Crystal said, “Give me a heads up, will you?”

“Not tonight,” Stiles said, eyes closed. He wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t going to puke.

Crystal snorted. “Didn’t think so,” she said. “Now get out of my car before you have to clean your vomit out of my upholstery.”

“Oh, God,” Stiles groaned, but he got out of Crystal’s car, into his jeep, and home to bed without incident. He slept through to dinner, and felt, if not completely human, close enough to fake it through dinner with his dad. After dinner, his dad put on a DVD of some old Mystery Science Theatre 3000 movies, and Stiles joined him on the couch with some popcorn (butter and salt free, air popped).

His dad kept looking at Stiles like he was waiting for Stiles to confess something, which wasn’t going to happen, but it wasn’t with enough intensity to scare Stiles back up to his room. When they had watched half the first movie, and Stiles hadn’t added his own commentary to that of the robots, his dad finally said something.

“You alright? You’ve been quiet,”

Stiles shrugged. “Happens, sometimes.”

After a minute, his dad nodded. Stiles didn’t know if he _believed_ him, and honestly, his dad had been letting Stiles get away with more lies that he really should have for a while now, but Stiles was still hung over, both mentally and physically, and he welcomed the white noise buzzing in his brain.

They watched another two movies before his dad excused himself to bed. Stiles watched another himself before doing the same.

Stiles spent Sunday on his computer, taking his Adderall with Red Bull and compiling all of his research into a central database, organized by _absolute truth, probable truth, likely legend,_ and _definitely fiction_. He kept a running list of subjects to research as he went, questions he had yet to discover the answers to, jotting them down in a Word doc as they occurred to him. He checked in with his contacts online, his gaming buddies, various forums.

It wasn’t enough. There were huge gaps, vital gaps, in the knowledge. Each hole represented something awful that could kill them all in horrible ways, or something that could have saved someone _if only they had known about it_.

Jesus. His fucking kingdom for Peter’s laptop.

Stiles crashed as the sun turned the sky morning pink, and slept until dinner. He ran through scenarios in the database, formulating ideas for tactics, weapons for the wolves to use, weapons to use against the wolves, until the sun went down.

***

It was a damn good thing that Stiles was one of the good guys, because this breaking and entering business was _way_ too easy. If Stiles ever decided to go darkside, good guys beware. Stilinski’s got the _skills_.

It was the work of seconds to break into Deaton’s office, and simpler still to copy the files to Stiles’s external hard drive. He searched the cabinets as the files transferred, but found no ancient tomes or stockpiles of magical ingredients. It was a roadblock, true, but Stiles had time.

He could, after all, just _talk_ to Deaton about that stuff.

And he would. Promise.

He just wanted to have all the information he could, first. If there was anything Stiles had learned, it was that he was better off having more information than the other person thought he had. The data transfer ended and Stiles crept back out, getting home just in time to play _Call of Duty_ with Scott online.

Alibi established.

***

Tuesday Stiles texted Crystal that he was coming by the club, and dug through his closet until he found something closer to actual club wear. While he had done just fine last time in his jeans and baggy t-shirt, he figured if he actually tried he might get to making out before he got too drunk to enjoy it.

And if it went further than that, well, Stiles was tired of being unicorn bait, anyway.

Of course, by his luck, his life would run by horror movie rules, and the minute he lost his V-card the slasher of the week would run him through with a fucking harpoon or some shit, but at least then he wouldn’t die a virgin.

And yeah, Stiles would have preferred it to be with someone he, you know, actually _cared_ about, but using it to signify a change in his philosophy on life seemed just as valid.

Fight hard. Play hard. Fuck often.

Stiles could really get behind that. Or in front of that. He wasn’t picky.

He pulled out his jeans from last year, and thank god vintage was in, because they had faded to pale blue in the wash, and he’d grown enough that they were _indecently_ tight on him, like, he could see the outline of his ass when he looked in the mirror.

Score.

Finding a shirt was harder. Stiles didn’t plan on wearing one for long, and he wanted the one he did wear to be one he could handle losing while at the same time made him look good. Finally, he grabbed his old “Browncoat” t-shirt and pulled it on.

It was tight, alright, so tight it almost didn’t go on. But it did, and it managed to pull in all the right places to make Stiles look like he actually had more definition that he really did, which was nice, though it did end a good inch above his jeans.

Jesus, he looked like a twink.

_Well._ Stiles cocked his head as he looked in the mirror. _I guess I kinda am_. He grinned at his reflection. _You are getting lucky tonight!_

***

Stiles wasn’t getting lucky tonight.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have interested offers—guys had been staring since he had walked in—but Crystal had pulled him into the group of girls and wasn’t letting him out to play.

Normally, Stiles wouldn’t mind. He really liked the girls, they had a lot of fun, but dammit, Stiles wanted to _play_.

They weren’t blocking the drinks, though, so that was one consolation. Stiles finished his latest drink, something orange and pink and tequila swirled, and was feeling warm and fuzzy and vaguely stoned like good tequila tended to do, and leaned into Sugar’s shoulder. Sugar patted his head with her _aggressively nailed_ hand—seriously, those were some freakin’ _talons_ —when Stiles heard:

“Oh my god, you’re Little Red, aren’t you?”

Stiles peeled his eyes open. The guy was either about Stiles’s age or looked young enough to fake it. His white shirt was soaked through, and Stiles could see his abs through the fabric. He licked his lips. Yeah, Stiles definitely had a thing for abs. He looked back up at the guy’s face: a little tipsy, definitely adoring, and certainly cute enough. Stiles could use a fan.

“Yessir,” Stiles said. Well, drawled, really. Tequila. Heh.

“You’re amazing!” the guy, well, gushed. Stiles preened. He could get used to this kind of attention. “I just love you on stage.” Stiles looked the guy over again and came to a decision. He could definitely do a groupie.

Stiles pushed himself away from Sugar. “You wanna dance?” Stiles asked, and where this confidence was coming from, Stiles had no idea, but the guy’s eyes widened, and he nodded, and Stiles managed to slip from his drag guard dog and pull the guy onto the dance floor.

He pulled the guy closer like Stiles remembered the guy on Friday doing for him, and Groupie got the program right away, staying close and moving against Stiles and grinding his hips in a way that _oh, yeah,_ Stiles was so getting lucky tonight.

One song blended into the next and the guy shifted, spinning Stiles around and pressing up against his back, reaching his hands around to run them along Stiles’s chest and down his thighs. Stiles leaned his head back, baring his throat, and because this was Stiles, and his luck was utter shit, the phrase “baring his throat” crossed his mind just as the song lyrics pierced his brain, telling him that he was _”running with wolves and I’m on the prowl,”_ and then all he could think of was Derek, sitting on his couch looking far too vulnerable while still being the hottest thing Stiles had ever _seen_ and it hit him like a punch to the dick that _he wanted Derek_. Which, honestly, wasn’t that much of a revelation as he’d been starring in Stiles’s wet dreams for a while now, but that Stiles wanted to _bare his throat,_ to Derek at the same time? That he wanted _Derek’s_ bare throat? That was new.

And disturbing. Stiles’s instincts were obviously being influenced by all the wolf-ness in his life.

“Fuck,” Stiles said out loud. “I need a drink.”

“Yeah,” the guy behind him said, not realizing that Stiles’s world had just shifted on its axis, “Lemme buy you a drink.”

Stiles nodded, and let the guy lead him back to the bar.

***

Stiles had no idea what kind of drink that was, but the room was spinning and the lights were flashing so very prettily in front of his eyes. Stiles just wanted to lay down and stare at the lights. Or maybe fly. Yeah. Fly with the lights.

There was somebody pressed against him, holding him down, and Stiles struggled. He wanted to fly, damnit, but this dude was holding him down, and the more he struggled the tighter the guy held and it was so hard to move, everything slow like the Kanima venom was taking effect, and Stiles didn’t want to _drown_ and—

“Stiles?”

Stiles turned his head. “Danny!” Stiles said. Danny was here! Danny was awesome! Even when Danny had that wrinkly concerned face on. Stiles looked around. Danny only ever had that face on for Jackson. “What’s up, buddy?” The hands tried to pull him away, and Stiles mumbled, “No, it’s Danny. Stop.”

The hands didn’t stop, but then Danny was even closer and talking to the guy. “He said no. Back off.”

There was no Jackson that Stiles could see, and he looked back at Danny. Man, they really were closer now. “Why are you here?”

“Yeah,” said the guy behind him. “Beat it.”

Hey! Nobody talked like that to Danny! Danny was nice!

Stiles twisted, finally breaking free of the hands and he turned. Huh. The guy only had two hands. Funny. It had felt like more. Stiles pointed a finger in the dude’s face. “You be nice to Danny! Danny is awesome! He puts up with all our shit even when he doesn’t have to, so… so you beat it!”

“Whatever,” the guy muttered and disappeared into the crowd. It was only after he left that Stiles realized there went his chance of getting laid tonight. Oh well. He got one, he could get another.

Danny waved a hand in front of Stiles’s face. “Danny!” Stiles said. “Why’re you here?”

“Taking you home,” Danny said, sighing.

“Nah, nah,” Stiles waved his hands, shaking his head, and he stumbled. Woah. “I’m good. I’m gonna get fucked.”

Danny made a strangled sound. “Likely, but not in any way you’d want. Trust me. Let’s go home, okay? Please?”

Stiles blinked. He had no defenses against Danny saying “please.” “Okay,” Stiles said, and Danny wrapped one of Stiles’s arms over his shoulders and half-carried Stiles out to his car.

Stiles really wasn’t sure how Danny got him up to his bed, but the next thing he knew he was begging Danny to promise not to tell anyone, convinced that Danny knew he was Little Red, and that if he told the pack then it wouldn’t be just _his_ anymore, and he couldn’t deal with that.

Danny was making that crumpled face again, but he promised, and Stiles relaxed. Danny didn’t break his promises.

Stiles awoke the next day around noon, with no memory of Danny or the guy or anything after laying his head on Sugar’s shoulder.

“I gotta start drinking less,” Stiles grumbled as he made his way to the shower. He smelled like a bar.

***

Crystal was staring at him.

“What?” Stiles asked, painting his nails red as he waited for his face to cook.

“You sure you’re okay, girl?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He flashed a grin, knowing it was a bit more wolfish that it probably should be, but not really caring. “I’ve finally realized that it’s okay to have fun, you know?”

“I know,” Crystal said. “I remember. Just be careful. Some people play for keeps.”

Stiles blew on his nails. Maybe he should grow them longer. “I know, Crystal,” he said. “Thanks.”

Crystal just nodded. Stiles had a feeling she knew more that she was talking about. He wondered, briefly, if he’d made an ass of himself the other night. He didn’t ask, though. If he did, he didn’t want to know about it.

Really, quick dry nail polish was a wonder. He pulled his wig on and finished his make up. He left his cheeks a little more rosy, added a little more sparkle. Tonight he was wearing the first of his “costumes.” Slutty Cheerleader.

Stiles blinked at himself in the mirror and pouted a kiss. _Yeah. I’d fuck me._

When he hit the stage that night, the pom poms were the first to go, and when Little Red sang, Stiles rejoiced.

_All my life I've been good, but now_   
_Whoa, I'm thinking what the hell_   
_All I want is to mess around_   
_And I, I, I don't really care about_   
_If you love me_   
_If you hate me_   
_You can't save me_   
_Baby, baby_   
_All my life I've been good, but now_   
_Whoooooooa what the hell!_

Party. Hard.

***

Derek was waiting when Stiles got home from the club. He was in street clothes, but he knew how he must smell; makeup and latex and sweaty man. Stiles watched Derek’s nostrils flare and he really had no idea how to deal with the look on Derek’s face.

Stiles shifted in place, suddenly hating Derek just a little for making this awkward. Well. Stiles was the king of awkward. He wasn’t going to let this fuck with them.

_Iron Man 2,_ Stiles said, because sometimes all you could do was ignore the glitter colored elephant in the room. “Disk’s downstairs. I’m gonna shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Derek nodded, but stopped next to Stiles instead of passing, and sniffed loudly and obviously.

“Ah!” Stiles protested, pushing Derek away. “Creeper! Go get the movie ready.”

Whatever had been on Derek’s face before was stronger now, but he left and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief.

Right. Shower.

***

By the time Tony Stark was eating his feelings in a giant doughnut, Stiles had enough of the awkward.

“Jesus fucking—are you ever going to relax?” Stiles demanded.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him and gestured to where he lay on the couch, stiffly, with his feet on the coffee table. Stiles glared at his feet. Derek had even taken his shoes off. The bastard.

“Please,” Stiles scoffed. “If you were any more tense, you’d crap diamonds.”

“I’m fine,” Derek said.

“Yeah, that’s a lie.”

“You’re one to talk,” Derek sniped back.

Stiles felt cold, could feel his face burning. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Derek clenched his jaw, looking for all the world like a sullen teenager, and how fucked up was Stiles’s _life_. “You’re not ‘fine’, Stiles. You haven’t been in a while. Maybe since I’ve known you.”

“How—” Stiles cut himself off, not sure if he was pissed or terrified, or if there was even a difference at this point.

Derek shook his head. “You can’t hide that from me, Stiles. I know you too well.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Stiles said, reflexively, because it wasn’t true—Derek did know him. Yeah, he might not know all the details, but Derek knew how Stiles acted under pressure, he knew what was most important to Stiles. He knew what Stiles was willing to sacrifice, and what Stiles wouldn’t sacrifice for anything. Looking at it that way, Derek knew him better that Stiles’s own dad did.

And Stiles knew Derek too. He knew that when Derek flinched it took him by surprise. That Derek hadn’t expected to be hurt here, not with Stiles, and Stiles could _see_ Derek start to clam up. Fuck.

Stiles had a sudden flash of memory, of dancing in the club and wanting Derek’s throat, and he blurted, “You know me so well it scares me.” Stiles paused, because where the fuck had that come from? It was true, it couldn’t not be true, and Derek was opening up again, but now Stiles had all these emotions on top of it, and he sighed, deflating.

“What do you want from me, Derek? Why are you here?”

Derek wouldn’t look away from him, just stared with that stillness that all the wolves in Stiles’s life had, and he wondered if that made him prey. But the look in Derek’s eyes wasn’t that of a hunter. It was the look of a man who had seen, and because of it, was seen and knew himself to be exposed.

It must have taken every ounce of courage for Derek to say, “I’ve never been wrong to trust you.”

And that was it. Seven words.

Seven words, and Stiles’s world was flipped upside down, because Stiles knew what that _meant._ It meant that Derek trusted him, that Stiles had proved and earned that trust, but that it also meant that _Derek felt he had nowhere else to go_ , not even to his own betas. It was so depressingly bleak, and Stiles wanted to thump Scott because he knew it was partially his fault.

It meant that Stiles had just gotten what he wanted. Derek had shown his throat.

Stiles felt far less victorious than he thought he’d feel. Instead, he felt like he’d just been handed a hemophiliac baby. Made of tissue paper. In a room of sharp pointy things.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve never been wrong to trust you, either.”

Derek’s mouth twitched to one side, and Stiles knew that it was a smile, and it was such a far cry from Derek’s smug grin or his “I’m flirting with you” smile that Stiles knew it had to be real.

Stiles settled back onto the couch, closer to Derek than before, and Derek actually relaxed into the cushions.

“I’m going to find out,” Derek said in a minute. “Where you go on Thursday nights.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. He wouldn’t fight so hard to keep his worlds separate if he didn’t know that they’d merge eventually.

Derek nodded.

They watched the movie.

***

Danny was a no-good, two-timing, double-crossing, _nerf-herder_. It was the only explanation for why Stiles woke up Friday morning to a bedroom full of wolf pack.

Bits of his memory had been returning. Danny had definitely promised him. Instead, he had said something to the rest of the pack that had them looking at him like he was on an episode of _Intervention_.

Oh, fuck. This was an intervention.

“You couldn’t wait until I at least had pants on before trying to tell me how to run my life?” Stiles said into his pillow. He peeked. Scott, at least, looked vaguely sheepish, but he also had his determined face on. _Well, fuck my life._

Erica was smirking at Stiles’s trade paperbacks, but he’d seen the covetous look in her eye. There was no fooling Batman about his Catwoman’s interests.

Boyd looked like Boyd.

Jackson was sitting on Stiles’s computer chair, Lydia perched on his lap, and Danny leaning against Stiles’s desk. Stiles hated all three of them. Even Danny, who looked vaguely apologetic. And Lydia, who Stiles was allowed to hate now because they were friends. And Jackson, who Stiles kind of always hated.

Allison looked earnest and concerned and such the perfect parallel to Scott that Stiles wondered when they’d gotten back together.

Stiles looked over at Isaac, who looked vaguely slumpy and creeperish and was standing far too close to Stiles’s closet for comfort. He must have been taking lessons from Peter, whom Stiles was glad to notice wasn’t there.

Neither was Derek. Stiles wondered if Derek even knew this was happening.

“Danny,” Stiles said. “What did you do?”

“Don’t blame Danny,” Scott said. “He just brought to our attention something we all should have realized.” And then Scott was climbing into Stiles’s bed and covering him with a full body hug like they used to do when they were little and the other was upset about something. Stiles felt himself relax into it even if he didn’t want to. He was pissed at Scott!

“I’m sorry,” Scott whispered into Stiles’s ear. “I’m a crap friend.” Stiles breathed in sharply, but didn’t say anything. “I can stay here for a long time.”

Stiles scoffed. “Like hell. You’re heavy as fuck. Have you put on weight? Too many late night werewolf snacks? You didn’t actually eat the dog treats I got you, right? Those were just a joke.”

Scott snorted. “No. You’re the one who ate dog treats.” It was true. It was also a dare. They were seven.

The bed dipped and suddenly all Stiles could see was Erica’s hair. Again, and Isaac was pressed up on his other side.

“What. The fuck?” Stiles said.

Boyd lay down on Erica’s other side. Allison sat at Stiles’s head.

“Is this a fucking puppy pile?” Stiles demanded.

“Enjoy it,” Scott said into Stiles’s shoulder.

“Why? Because it won’t happen again?” Stiles demanded, and yeah, he might have still been a little asleep, because that came out more bitter than he wanted.

Scott lifted his head enough to look down at Stiles, and Stiles knew Scott had heard everything Stiles hadn’t said and was stunned that Stiles thought that way. “No,” he said. “Because you’re so tense I feel like I’m lying on the floor.”

“It should have been happening all along,” Lydia said in her lecture voice. Stiles couldn’t see, so he didn’t know where she ended up, but there was suddenly a lot of weight on his and Scott’s legs. Oh. So that’s where they went.

“You’re pack,” Isaac said, quietly.

Stiles swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Why now?”

“Because Danny told us you dribbled self-loathing all over him when he dragged your drunk ass home from the Jungle.” Jackson said.

“I did not!” Stiles protested, even as Danny chastised, _“Jackson!”_

“What?” Jackson muttered.

“What I said,” Danny said to Stiles, “was _in confidence_.” Danny glared at Jackson and Stiles knew Jackson was in the doghouse. Werewolf house. “And that I was worried because it wasn’t the first time I’d seen you exhibit risky behaviors.”

Stiles stared up at what little ceiling he could see. “What risky behaviors?” he asked.

“Well,” Scott said. “You regularly goad the Alpha on a regular basis.”

Stiles snorted. “Try again.”

“You go out by yourself all the time,” Allison said, quietly. “And from what Danny told us, we’re pretty sure the guy gave you more than alcohol.”

“You’re smarter than that,” Lydia hissed.

And she was right. Stiles was smarter than that. He also had been very deliberately not thinking about that, because thinking about it made him picture his dad’s disproving face.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said.

“This time,” Boyd said, and Stiles gave him the eye. He wondered if he’d ever get used to him talking. Boyd smiled like he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking.

“We’ve been wrapped up in ourselves,” Danny said. “And we’re sorry.”

And wasn’t this what Stiles had been hoping for? What Stiles had wanted when he made that plan? Acceptance by the pack?

If Stiles accepted that apology, how the fuck was he going to keep them away from Little Red?

Then Scott frowned at him, and it was the same frown that Stiles had seen the first day they met, when Scott couldn’t figure out how to say Stiles’s name, and with those puppy dog eyes, it was no wonder Scott had become a werewolf.

Stiles sighed. He still wasn’t going to get involved in any shenanigans until school started, but he had missed his pack. He bumped his forehead against Scott’s, and Scott grinned super broad before settling in for what looked to be a long cuddle. 

“I’m going to have to get up at some point, guys. Guys?” Sigh. “You all suck.”


	4. 18 Wheeler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You can hit me with your 18 wheeler truck, I’ll just get back up…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to raving_liberal for the last minute beta!
> 
> FYI, I was informed that the Sheriff got his job back at the end (I'm still not finished with the series, mea culpa). That's now fixed: The Sheriff is the Sheriff is the Sheriff.

Stiles must have fallen back to sleep, lulled by the warmth of the bodies around him, because he awoke sometime later cramped from being forced to sleep in one position and overheated because werewolves were like mini furnaces and there was no way the AC in his room would be able to compete with that.

Wiggling an arm free, Stiles pushed against the bodies on top of him, and he moved a few inches up in the bed, gasping for sweet, cool breath. He grabbed at his shirt one handed, pulling it out of shape and nearly ripping it as he tore it off his body. _Fuck, it’s hot_ , he thought as he fell back against his pillow. He sensed more than heard the low chuckle, and was unsurprised when he looked over to see Derek sitting in his desk chair.

“What?” Stiles said, his voice quiet and rough. “You don’t want in on this action?”

Derek blinked slowly at him, breathing deep, and his eyes darkened as they flickered over Stiles’s exposed skin and _holy fuck, was Derek checking him out?_ Stiles felt his jaw go slack, and he ran a nervous tongue over his lower lip, feeling his heart skip as Derek’s gaze focused on his mouth.

No. _No._ This was _not_ happening with the _entire pack_ lying on top of him. Stiles closed his mouth, pressing his lips together, and swallowed, thinking of anything and everything he could to keep himself calm. Taking a deep breath, he wiggled out from the bed, scrambling to hold onto the waistband of his boxers as, apparently, Erica had latched onto them like a teddy bear. Stiles couldn’t tell if he was more amused, terrified, or turned on by that, and by the time both feet hit the carpet, he had decided to just accept that it was all three and put it out of his mind.

Stiles jerked his head towards the door, grabbing a shirt that, while maybe not the freshest, passed the sniff test and, more importantly, wasn’t soaked through with pack-sweat. He pulled the shirt on and led Derek down into the kitchen, working on autopilot as he put on a pot of coffee and started pulling breakfast foods from the cupboards. It wouldn’t be long until the rest of them realized Stiles wasn’t there anymore, and hungry werewolves and three humans who could keep their own would beset them. Stiles popped a few pieces of bread into the toaster and looked at the eighteen-count egg carton in his hand. Maybe he should get a Costco card.

“Yeah, but seriously,” Stiles said, pulling out a frying pan and turning on the stove. “Scott said it was a pack bonding thing. You’re the Alpha of said pack. I’d consider you pretty damn integral to any and all pack… anything.”

“It’s one thing if your dad walks in and sees you in a pile of teenagers. It’s another if it’s a bunch of teenagers and that twenty-something former ‘person of interest’.”

Stiles blinked. “That’s it?”

Derek raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “That’s not enough?”

Stiles shrugged, the motion encompassing how “not enough” it was. “But you have that whole…” Stiles waved his hand to indicate Derek’s mystical Alpha werewolves-work-outside-the-law, but-it’s-different-with-pack, “…thing going on.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and sighed, staring at the ceiling. “My mom was on the PTA,” he said at last. “My dad coached my little league team. Aunt Jenny ran the soup kitchen.”

Stiles looked away. That wasn’t at all what he expected Derek to say, but he got what he meant. “It’s not an ‘either/or’ with you. It’s an ‘and’.”

Derek nodded, and woah did Derek make so much more sense now. Since Derek had reappeared in Beacon Hills, he’d been treated like something other than human, something _less_ than human. Even Stiles had treated Derek as something _other_.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, hanging his head and running his hand over his hair.

“Don’t be,” Derek said. “Of all of them, you’ve always treated me the most human.” Stiles looked up at him, surprised. “You…don’t treat me differently because I’m a werewolf.”

“No, I treat you differently because you’re an antisocial asshole,” Stiles said, and bit his lip.

Derek chuckled. It was dry, but warm. “Exactly.”

Stiles smiled at him, hesitant but honest, and Derek leaned forward. It was captivating; he’d never seen such an open expression on Derek’s face that hadn’t been overshadowed by hurt or pain. “Werewolves treat pack differently because it’s the only place we can truly relax and talk about things that we can’t talk about in public. But it’s no different than being in any other group with a unique interest or perspective. Like, say, drag queens.”

Stiles froze, and Derek continued, a smug little smirk playing about his lips. “Not everybody would understand the desire to play with gender and performance, so someone wouldn’t, necessarily, talk about it publically, making the moments that that someone could relax with like minded people all the more special.”

“You know,” Stiles whispered.

Derek nodded. “Stiles,” he said, and leaned in closer, dropping his voice further. “It’s okay.”

Stiles shook his head. “How is it okay? It’s not—it was just supposed to be for _me_ , damnit!”

Derek had the grace to look apologetic. “None of the others have figured it out. And they won’t hear it from me,” he said. “I’m good at secrets.”

Snorting, Stiles deflated. “You’re too good at them,” he said. “And I thought I was better at it. Fuck.”

Derek reached out, placing a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles calmed at the contact, letting the warmth of Derek’s hand bleed into his muscles.

“The other reason,” Derek said, so quietly Stiles had to strain to head, “is that we’ve been bonding already.”

Reaching up, Stiles covered Derek’s hand with his own. “That feels different, though,” he said, just as quiet.

Derek shrugged. “You can fall asleep on me next time, if that would help.”

Stiles felt a zing at that, a pleasurable flush that spread out from the center of his chest. “Careful,” he said. “I might take you up on that.”

“I look forward to it.”

It was official. Stiles was officially flirting with Derek Hale. Stiles opened his mouth to push further, to see where it went, but of course that’s when Scott stumbled down the stairs, sleep dazed and rubbing his eyes.

“Do I smell toast?” he asked, voice hazy.

Stiles pulled back and handed Scott the first batch of toast, feeding a few more slices of bread into the toaster. Never let it be said that Scott wasn’t good at breaking the mood.

Oh God. There had been a _mood_! Scott had totally mood-blocked him!

Stiles poured Scott a cup of coffee, deliberately leaving out the sugar and cream, and set it down with a thunk on the table. Scott didn’t even notice, just grabbed the mug and drank, swallowing about half the mug before he registered the taste. He didn’t even have the decency to scald his mouth.

Fucking werewolf healing.

Scott looked at the mug, then up at Stiles. “Dude, are you mad at me?”

“Gee, Scott,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Derek snickered, and Scott jumped, startled. “Derek? When…”

“You need to work on your awareness,” Derek said, standing.

“Dude, breakfast!” Stiles said, pointing to the eggs and cans of hash on the counter.

Derek looked over his shoulder. “Scrambled?” he asked, and then disappeared up the stairs. Stiles watched him go, amused to realize that he hadn’t even minded the lack of “please” and “thank you.” He liked to think they had moved past that. Derek was grateful. Stiles was welcome. _Probaretur per ipsam quod._ By the very fact that it had been proven.

Everything sounded more important in Latin. Stiles really couldn’t wait to break out his mad Latin skills in college.

Stiles looked back to see Scott watching him, hopeful. Stiles just raised his eyebrows at him.

“I said I was sorry!” Scott protested, his voice taking on the barest hint of whine the way it always did when Scott didn’t know how to make people see things from his point of view. What Scott never realized is that seeing things from his point of view didn’t automatically make him _right_.

“Sorry won’t always cut it, Scott!” Stiles said. He gestured at Scott with one hand. “One day you’re going to say or do something that can’t be fixed by tying you up and chucking lacrosse balls at your face.”

Scott blinked. “But you said that was training.”

“It was,” Stiles said, shrugging. “But it was also for the excuse to chuck lacrosse balls at your face.”

Scott nodded after a moment because, despite his recent dick behavior, Scott was still Stiles’s best friend since second grade, and he got that sometimes a guy needed to chuck balls at his friend’s face. It was the main reason Stiles forgave Scott; Scott was kinda awesome like that.

Stiles opened his arms and Scott grinned, jumping up from his seat to hug Stiles, holding on longer than the three second minimum because Scott was _Scott_ and Stiles was _Stiles_ and when you went through what they went through together, you understood that sometimes bros just needed to hug it out. Stiles wasn’t going to lie, either; he was a hugger. Scott knew that. Scott accepted that about him the same way he accepted everything about Stiles, with a shrug and a grin and the subtle judgeless changing of his worldview. It helped that Scott was there when Stiles’s mom died, and that Stiles had been there when Scott’s dad was still living with them, and that certain experiences pushed people beyond social norms.

What it boiled down to was that while Stiles was analyzing and cataloging the social intricacies behind his and Scott’s prolonged brohugs, he also knew that Scott’s thought process boiled down to “Stiles and/or I needs a hug. Therefore we will hug until the need passes.”

Uncomplicated, but by no means simple, and Stiles had missed his brother.

“You know, I told you that Scott would leave Allison for Stiles one day,” Jackson said from the stairway, and Stiles flipped him off behind Scott’s head, even as he heard the soft “thwack” that meant somebody had smacked Jackson someplace muscled. Probably his abs.

Seriously, what was it with this pack and abs? Stiles had half a mind to take the bite just for the ability to do his washing on his stomach.

They did break apart, Stiles taking a moment to curl his arm around Scott’s neck and rub his knuckles into Scott’s head, making Scott laugh and dance away.

“Okay,” Stiles said turning back to the stove. “Hope you all like scrambled eggs. Coffee’s in the pot. Scott, you’re on toast duty.”

Scott mock saluted, and Stiles started breaking eggs into the pan as the rest of the pack settled into the kitchen, Derek standing watch in the doorway.

***

By Sunday, things were really starting to look up. There was a restlessness that Stiles had only peripherally been aware of, that eased the longer Stiles spent with the pack. Scott had resumed his position at Stiles’s right hand, Isaac taking a step back. Stiles knew he’d still have to talk to Scott about his tendency to leave Stiles behind when he meets someone new, but he was willing to let that one sit for the time being.

Well. For as long as Isaac kept his muzzle out of their bromance, anyway.

Things were looking so up, in fact, that Stiles decided to treat himself to some well-sugared caffeine. As he waited for the barista to call his order, Stiles wondered how somebody could drink coffee like this all the time. Scott, he knew, drank sweet coffee. Lydia, too, though hers were always “skinny”. Allison and Danny drank tea, and Jackson drank lattes because he was a pretentious dick. Stiles wasn’t sure about The Trio, but he knew Derek liked his coffee the way Stiles did—black and hot. Stiles knew that he himself drank coffee that way because that’s how his dad drank coffee—that it was the easiest and the cheapest to get no matter where you were. Even crap coffee was drinkable without sugar and cream to highlight the coffee’s shortcomings. Stiles didn’t know why Derek drank black coffee. He’d seen Derek forget and add sugar, saw the way he’d flinch when he’d take a sip, like he’d forgotten. Stiles wondered who drank black coffee when Derek was growing up.

Anyway. It was his preoccupation with the way the barista would chew on her lip ring—rwar—and contemplation of what the pack’s coffee preferences said about them that allowed Deaton to sneak up on him.

It had absolutely nothing to do with Deaton’s own particular brand of supernatural creeps. At all.

Shut up.

“Stiles,” Deaton said, very close to Stiles’s ear, and placed a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, keeping him in place. “It’s refreshing to see someone so passionate about his studies that he’d take the initiative when his teacher was out of town.

“H-hey, Doc,” Stiles said, hoping his forced laughter hid the tremor in his voice and knowing it didn’t. Stiles was a skilled obfuscator, but there was something about Deaton that pulled at the truth in Stiles in a way that made his skin crawl.

“I’m not going to ask for it back,” Deaton said, smiling. How was he smiling? Didn’t anybody else see what was happening? Could nobody see past the vet’s reputation to see the way he was being all threatening towards Stiles’s person?

Granted, he hadn’t actually _threatened_ Stiles’s person. But it was implied! And Stiles had stood his ground against implied violence from bigger creatures than Deaton.

Though, Derek had never scared him as much as Deaton did, now.

“Do you know why I’m not going to ask for it back?” Deaton prompted.

“Because…” Stiles nodded his head, thinking fast. “You’re such a kind and generous person?”

“Oh, I can do better than that,” Deaton said. “I’m not asking for it back because you’re going to need it as I train you.”

“Train.” Stiles said. “Train? You—” Stiles tried to spin to look at Deaton, but got caught and half-strangled himself when Deaton didn’t move his hand. “You want to train me?”

“I need to train you,” Deaton said, voice deeper and more serious than Stiles had heard it before. Deaton let go and Stiles heard the barista call his name. He collected his coffee in a daze. Deaton caught his arm as he tried to flee. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Morning,” Stiles said. “Got it.” He forced himself to meet Deaton’s eyes, and Deaton relaxed back into the more mellow vet that Stiles remembered.

“Good,” Deaton said. “I look forward to it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Me too.”

It wasn’t until Stiles was already in his jeep that he realized he meant it. He started to laugh. He’d been so caught up in the way Deaton was acting he had nearly forgotten that _he’d wanted Deaton’s training in the first place._ Dollars to doughnuts, Deaton knew that, too. Sneaky bastard. Stiles knew he liked him.

Stiles put the jeep into gear and backed out of the parking lot. He had a sudden craving for doughnuts.

***

Feeling an inauspicious sense of déjà vu, Stiles drove over to the Animal Hospital late Monday night. The building was dark, save for the hall lights that never turned off. Stiles parked next to the only other car in the lot—and wasn’t it strange to think that Deaton drove a Volvo.

Stiles realized he had been sitting in his jeep for nearly five minutes and spun around, looking desperately for someone sneaking up on him and finding none. Huh. Stiles had obviously been spending too much time around Derek’s creeper tendencies if he was _expecting_ to be startled. Still, he was strangely disappointed as he got out of his jeep and walked to the entrance, odd appearances had become something of a routine.

Stopping at the door, Stiles wondered if he should knock. He raised his hand and felt a tingle, like he had put his hand near an electric fence. Pulling back, he looked down.

Mountain ash. Deaton had erected a circle. For protection? To keep something out? If they were, as Stiles was pretty sure, going to be learning magic, who know what he could attract.

Or maybe it was to keep Stiles in.

Stiles shook the thought off and knocked on the door. After a few moments with no answer, Stiles pulled and was unsurprised when the door opened. “Hello?” Stiles called.

“In here, Stiles,” Deaton called from the back. Carefully, Stiles stepped over the ash line and closed the door behind him. He went into the back and found Deaton in the surgery, standing where Stiles himself had way back when Derek tried to convince Stiles to saw off his arm to save him from the wolfsbane bullet. Stiles walked over to the table, aware of the parallel and wondering if Deaton knew, too. He wouldn’t put it past him. (He’d put very little past Deaton, to be honest).

There were several objects on the table. A silver knife. A jar of dark grey ash—mountain ash. A jar of dried green lead and purple blossom shavings—wolfsbane. A bowl. Mortar and pestle. A few other objects that Stiles couldn’t identify on the short walk over.

“Well,” Stiles said, raising his hands from his sides and letting them drop. “I’m here.”

“I see that,” Deaton said. “Do you know what’s on the table?”

“Some of it,” Stiles said. “Not all.”

Deaton nodded. “And what are we making tonight?”

Stiles frowned. “You’re the teacher,” he said. Deaton raised an eyebrow, and Stiles’s gaze flickered to the table. “Potion?”

Deaton chuckled. “Close. A poultice,” he said.

“A poultice,” Stiles said. He knew the word, had seen it enough in his RPGs to know that it was medicinal. Topical. Used to draw poison and infection. “It stops The Bite,” he said. His eyes snapped up. “I thought there was no cure. That once you’re bit you just have to wait it out.”

“That’s true for most,” Deaton said. “The bite is usually deliberate, and stopping its progress is not normally something desirable.”

“Usually?” Stiles asked.

Deaton looked at Stiles for a long moment. “There are three main circumstances under which a person is Bitten. Accidental, which is very rare. Without consent—where the biter means to bite but the bitten does not mean to be bitten, and Offered. The last is, by far, the most common.” 

“Offered is most common?” Stiles repeated.

“Yes,” Deaton said. “You’re basically inviting someone into your family. Look at Derek’s pack. Every beta he has turned he gave the choice. Only Scott wasn’t offered. I don’t think Peter had it in him to ask at that point, he had lost so many.”

Stiles looked away, because Peter _had_ offered Stiles, and the implications weren’t something Stiles was comfortable with.

“The point is,” Deaton said, “That in the last two cases, either both parties want the bite to take or the bitten is in no position to create a poultice.”

“Makes sense,” Stiles said, faintly, scenarios flitting though his head, none of them good. “So you’re teaching me this because…”

“Because you’re going to need it,” Deaton said. “Now. Grab the pestle and the dried wolfsbane. Let’s begin.”

Stiles pulled the ingredients to him, and followed Deaton’s soft-spoken instructions, grinding everything by hand into a dry paste. His arm started to ache almost immediately, but he kept at it, knowing just how important learning this could be. One day, this could be the only thing between himself and becoming a werewolf. Or between his father and a life tied to the pull of the moon. He fell into a groove easily enough, allowing his body to keep working steadily through the pain.

Humming quietly, one of the thousand half-remembered melodies from his early childhood, Stiles felt his mind quiet. It wasn’t until Deaton reached out and covered Stiles’s hand that Stiles realized he was done. Stiles breathed in sharply, the world rushing back like someone had just turned on the overhead light, and he looked up at Deaton.

“That song,” he said quietly. “What was it?”

“Just something Mom would sing,” Stiles said. “I didn’t even know I remembered that much.”

Deaton hummed. He held open a tiny airtight jar, and Stiles made sure to scrape every last bit out of the mortar. Deaton sealed it with a flip of his fingers, and he handed the jar to Stiles. “Why?” Stiles asked, taking the jar and slipping it into his pocket.

“Because it’s very old,” Deaton said. “A focus. And you slipped into it seamlessly.”

Stiles shrugged. “So?”

“So it means you’re a natural,” Deaton said. “Not just a spark, but a spark with _aptitude._ That is why I need to train you. You have the power to do amazing things, intelligence to do them well, but you lack the experience you need to properly navigate these channels.” Deaton looked at Stiles for a long moment. “Take the jar with you. We’ve done enough for tonight.”

“Enough!” Stiles said “But it’s—” Stiles looked at the clock and blanched. It had been two hours! “Holy shit!”

“You see?” Deaton said. Stiles nodded. Easy to do, but easy to lose himself as well. “You must promise me that, for a while, you do not practice without me there. Do you understand?”

Stiles nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” He grinned. “I promise.” 

_1) Information. Check. 2) Power. Check._

 

***

By Thursday, Stiles had amassed a small collection of vials and potions of various ilk, each one designed to make life as a human pack member a little easier. When he had enough, he’d share what he could with Danny and with Lydia. Allison, too. Maybe. Probably. He did actually _like_ Allison, especially if she was over her batshit crazy.

For the first time in months, Stiles finally felt like he was once again on top of his game.

It was enough that when Stiles bounced into _The Jungle,_ the other queens took notice.

“Lookin’ good, _hunty,_ ” Sugar said, knocking their hips together as they “jostled” for space in front of the mirror.”

“Feeling good, girl,” Stiles said, gluing down his eyebrows.

“You’ve gotten good at that,” Lois said, taking up space on Stiles’s other side.

“Two words,” he said. “You. Tube.”

Crystal walked up, tucking the ends of her hair under her wig cap. She took one look at Stiles. “You look better,” she said, looking him up and down. “I was getting worried for you for a little while there.”

Stiles smiled at Crystal in the mirror. “I had some shit to work through, but—things are really looking up.”

Crystal hugged him, squeezing across his shoulders.

 

***

Stiles took the stage in darkness, facing away from the stage, and as the bass started to sound, slipped into Little Red. The lights rose slowly, and Little Red turned to face the audience, moving to the edge of the stage with a lolling walk that was all swagger and danger as she began to sing, very aware at just how perfect this song was.

_Hey hey man, what's your problem_

And wasn’t that _the_ question.

_I see you try to hurt me bad_   
_Don't know what you're up against_

Stiles may seem like the weakest link, sought out and picked upon by everybody they faced. Not one knew what they were really in for.

_Maybe you should reconsider_   
_Come up with another plan_

They wouldn’t, but Little Red sang like Stiles would taunt.

_Cause you know I'm not that kind of girl_   
_That'll lay there let you come first_

The song slipped into the bridge and Little Red sang it like an anthem. Stiles sang is like a war cry.

_You can push me out the window_   
_I'll just get back up_   
_You can run over me with your 18 wheeler truck_   
_And I won't give a fuck_   
_You can hang me like a slave_   
_I'll go underground_   
_You can run over me with your 18 wheeler but_   
_You can't keep me down_

And really, that’s what this whole thing was about. Fighting back. Getting up, even when they have you on your back. Stiles wasn’t about to let anything keep him down. Little Red grinned, strutting around the stage, working up the crowd, and calling to the rafters that the bitch is back!

***

Stiles left by the stage door, waving to Barb over his shoulder, so he was already a few steps into the parking lot before he realized he wasn’t alone. He stopped short at the sight of the familiar black Camaro, and the lone figure leaning against the driver’s door.

“Derek,” Stiles said.

“Stiles,” Derek returned. He nodded towards the club. “Saw your act.”

Stiles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, flooding his system with burning cold. “Oh yeah?” he asked, feeling his voice echo in his own ears.

Derek nodded. “You’re good.”

And just like that, Stiles could breathe. “Of course I’m good,” Stiles said. “I’m made of win.”

Derek smirked, mouth parting in what Stiles was sure was a soft chuckle, and Stiles was not ashamed to admit that he stared a bit, mouth hanging. Derek didn’t laugh often, and it was mind boggling how _different_ he looked, less like the tragic figure of a _True Blood_ style drama and more—well—human. Stiles could watch Derek laugh for hours.

And he had just made Derek laugh with an offhanded joke. Stiles really _was_ made of win!

Stiles adjusted the strap of his backpack. “So…” he said, shifting from side to side, “Captain America is next, right?”

“Sure,” Derek said. He looked Stiles over and Stiles fought to keep his heartbeat steady and failed miserably. Luckily, Derek either wasn’t listening, or had decided not to comment, because he just said, “Dinner first? Diner’s open.”

“The diner is twenty-four hours,” Stiles said. “By which I mean yes and you’re buying.”

Derek raised his eyebrow. “I am, am I?”

“Yep,” Stiles started walking backwards to his jeep. “The star never pays.”

“Alright,” Derek said easily, and Stiles grinned at him, surprised and pleased. “I’ll meet you there.”

Stiles nodded and jogged off to his jeep.

Of course, the trip lasted just long enough for Stiles to come down a little from the performance high and start to freak out. He and Derek had hung out together before, but never in public. And they certainly had never gotten dinner together. It was altogether too date-like. Derek was even _paying_.

_Holy crap was this a date!_

Stiles parked his jeep and stared at the wheel for a moment. This was not the way he’d want to spend his first date with Derek. His eyebrows were still tacky from the glue and there was a patch of makeup behind his left ear that he had missed again. He was dressed—well, like he always dressed, which was, admittedly, not really date material.

God, if Lydia ever found out he wore this on a _date_ …

But Lydia wasn’t there, and Stiles heard the Camaro door slam, and there was no more time to panic. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t even know if this was really a date. If it was, he figured there’d be more, you know, date-clues. Something more definite. They were just two buds, out for dinner.

And Stiles wasn’t the least bit disappointed. Nope.

This late, they sat themselves in a booth in the back by mutual consensus. Derek might never _not_ get odd looks in town, especially when seen out with the Sheriff's teenage son, and Stiles really didn’t want anybody telling his dad.

The waitress came over to get their order. Her name was Jan, and she was old enough to be Derek’s mom, but she wasn’t a gossip like Ruth could be, and she took their orders—a pair of cheeseburger deluxes with a chocolate malt and a vanilla shake—with nothing but a nod and a grin. And, as soon as she left…

“Vanilla? Really?” Stiles teased. Derek shrugged.

“Vanilla is a surprisingly complex flavor,” Derek said. “And my life is… exotic enough in other ways.”

That…totally sounded like an innuendo.

“Well, mine isn’t,” Stiles said, sinking down in the booth. “No matter how much I might want it to be,” he muttered. He was the _only one_ in the pack who had never had sex, and while nobody really gave him shit for it, he was _ready_ dammit. It was time.

“I don’t know,” Derek mused. “Your life can be pretty exciting.”

Stiles made a considering face. “I am running with wolves, and am on the prowl.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched, so Stiles considered it a win for him. He fiddled with the corner of his placemat, tearing little bits off.

“So…” Stiles said, softly. “You really liked the show?”

Derek shrugged. “I liked you. You really seemed to… connect with what you were singing.”

“ _You can’t keep me down,_ ” Stiles half-sang. “Gee, I wonder why I connect with _that_.”

Derek made a face and went on. “The others got into it, but you…” Derek didn’t finish, so Stiles forced on a grin.

“Look damn fine in a pair of daisy dukes.”

“You do make a good looking woman,” Derek agreed.

Stiles beamed. “It’s all skill, my friend. All skill.”

Jan came over then with the shakes, and Stiles attacked his with a long pull that hollowed his cheeks, drinking down a good third in one go. When he pulled back, moaning a little in happiness, he realized Derek was just staring at him.

…Maybe this really was a date. Stiles swallowed, knowing he was flushing a bright red, but not really caring. Well, no, he _cared_ , he just didn’t acknowledge it. There was no point. There wasn’t much he could hide from Derek, anyway. He tried a smile, and Derek seemed to snap out of it, blinking at Stiles as if surprised to see him there.

Then Derek smiled. It was small, tentative and Stiles didn’t blame him. There wasn’t much in Derek’s life recently that was _worth_ those kinds of private smiles.

Stiles felt his heart pound, knew Derek could hear it. This was so much more than a crush.

Someone walked up to their table, and Stiles leaned back automatically, assuming it was Jan with their food, but when no plate appeared in front of him, he looked up.

Right into the face of his father.

“Dad!” Stiles said.

“Son,” The Sheriff said. “Derek.”

“Sir,” Derek said.

The Sheriff looked between them. “So what brings you boys out this late?”

“Food,” Stiles said. “Food then _Captain America._ Derek hasn’t seen it, and that’s just wrong.”

Derek nodded, looking a lot younger than Stiles was used to seeing him.

“Uh huh.” The Sheriff said. “And where were you going to watch this movie?”

“In… the… living room?” Stiles said, face scrunching up as his fingertips dug into his own thighs.

The Sheriff stared at Stiles for a long moment, before nodding once. His face never moved from the dubious half-scowl Stiles had seen him wear all too often.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Derek, you’re coming to the next family dinner—”

“Dad!”

“I need to know _all_ of your friends, Stiles, for when I inevitably have to drive them home from whatever scheme you’ve cooked up. It was easy when it was just Scott, and Derek here is too old for that. Therefore, dinner.” The Sheriff narrowed his eyes at Derek. “I am willing to say that we assumed the worst of you before. Don’t give me a reason to believe that that assumption was justified.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said. “No, sir.”

After a minute, the Sheriff nodded, finally cracking a grin and looking at Stiles. “He’s polite. I like that. You might learn something.”

Stiles just groaned and dropped his head onto the tabletop.

“Drive safe, Stiles,” The Sheriff said, walking off and chuckling at completely embarrassing his son on his first date.

God, Stiles hoped that, if this was a first date, it hadn’t just been ruined. Slowly, he peeked up at Derek.

Derek looked a little pale, but also very relieved. He met Stiles’s eyes.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, quietly. Derek nodded. Jan appeared then, placing their food in front of them. The sheer fact of Stiles being a teenager and Derek being a werewolf was the only reason that they were actually able to eat.

“So…” Stiles said, once the burgers had disappeared he was idly swirling his french fries in his milkshake before eating them. “Movie?” _Do you still want to hang out with me? Do this thing with me? See if this is a thing with me?_

Derek nodded. “Sure,” he said, and there was that smile again.

Stiles grinned and slurped down the last of his shake in victory.


	5. Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Where there’s desire there is bound to be a flame/where there’s a flame someone’s bound to get burned/just because you’re burned doesn’t mean you’re going to die/you gotta get up and try, try, try…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to raving_liberal for the beta, and proxydialogue for listening to me ramble.

Of course, the next morning, Stiles went straight to Scott’s and threw himself onto Scott’s bed, screaming into the pillow. It said a lot about the durability of their friendship that Scott didn’t even blink, just restarted his game and placed Stiles’s controller next to his head. When the screaming stopped and breathing became an issue, Stiles pulled himself up from the bed, flopping around until he’d settled into a mostly seated position, and grabbed his controller to kill zombies.

Which he did. With a _vengeance_.

After the third time Stiles nearly threw his controller into Scott’s TV, Scott paused the game. He looked Stiles over critically—as much as Stiles liked to bust on Scott, the boy was capable of critical thinking—and said, “You’re going to have to talk. I can’t afford a new TV and drinking before noon just leads to alcoholism.”

“You can’t get drunk,” Stiles muttered.

Scott shrugged. Stiles sighed and dropped his controller. And, because he never could pass up up a chance to fuck with Scott, he spoke just as Scott drank his soda. “So. I kinda went on a date with Derek last night.”

To Stiles’s dismay, Scott didn’t spit take, but it was a near thing. Scott forced himself to swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and croaked out, _“What?!”_

Stiles shrugged. “You heard me.”

Scott looked at Stiles, face pinched like he was trying very hard to figure something out.

“What did you guys… do?”

“Dinner at the diner,” Stiles said. “Then we watched _Captain America_.” Stiles blinked. “Though, we’ve kinda been doing the movie thing for a few weeks.” Had they really been dating without realizing it?

Scott still looked pinched. Stiles raised an eyebrow. _What?_

“It’s just—it’s weird to think about _Derek_ on a _date_.”

Stiles… really had to agree. Derek was so very much _not_ a date-type person. He was fight-guy, life-saving guy—a _creature of the night_ in the way Scott really wasn’t, with the bad-boy Hollywood looks and the growls and the air of “I’m the Alpha, now.”

Of course, Stiles knew that’s what it was. An air. True, Derek was all of those things, but Stiles knew better than most of his friends how to hide behind what people expect to see, to build up one piece of who you are to protect the rest. Because the Derek Stiles knew also liked vanilla milkshakes and The Hulk and could match Stiles snark for snark and—

Scott was grinning at him.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“You went on a real date!”

Stiles could have been offended by the implication, but this was Scott. Stiles grinned back. “I know!” He sighed. “I’m awesome.”

Scott nudged Stiles’s shoulder. “So why the screaming?”

“Because it’s Derek!” Stiles said, waving his arms. “It’s kinda a big deal!”

Scott nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Though, hey! This crush seems to be working out a lot better than Lydia.”

“Lydia was not a crush. Lydia was an eternal and deep seated love,” Stiles protested and stopped, eyes going wide to match Scott’s. “I’m in love with Derek.”

“Holy shit,” Scott said.

Stiles held his head in his hands. He loved Derek— _how did he love Derek?_

Well, he did trust Derek with his life. That mutual life saving thing went a long way in establishing that kind of trust.

And yeah, there was affection. The more Stiles saw the Derek behind the Alpha, the more he liked.

So—trust. Affection. Lust—whoo, boy, was there lust. So yeah. Sources say chances are good.

“You two haven’t…” Scott trailed off.

“No,” Stiles pouted. “Not even kissed.”

“Then how do you know it was a date?” Scott asked.

“There was a mood,” Stiles said. “A moment.” He covered his face with his hands. “At least there was until Dad showed up.”

“Your dad crashed your date?”

“Yes,” Stiles whined. “And now Derek’s coming to dinner!”

“Dude,” Scott breathed, very obviously thinking of his own nerve-wracking meet-the-parents dinner. “Well,” he said. “At least your dad’s gun can’t actually kill Derek.”

“You know, Scott, that’s actually strangely comforting.”

***

It was much less of a comfort when Stiles was mixing ground beef and spices in the kitchen, waiting for Derek to show up while his dad cleaned his gun in the dining room. It didn’t matter that Derek wasn’t here to see it—he would be, maybe. The end of it, anyway, if he got here soon—but either way, Derek would smell it, the gunpowder and the oil and the metal.

Though, his dad didn’t know about that so using the smell as a warning couldn’t be intentional. Which could mean the sheriff was just cleaning his gun.

Stiles didn’t trust it. His father was far too sneaky for that.

Which meant he was cleaning them for _Stiles_ , knowing that Stiles would get the message and impress it on Derek.

Sneaky. Stiles was impressed.

The doorbell rang, and Stiles was startled, just barely catching his mixing bowl and saving the meat inside. He paused, sighing with relief, then scrambled to wash his hands because he heard his dad stand to answer the door. Stiles scrambled into the hallway just as he heard his dad.

“Derek. Come on in.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Derek said, stepping inside. Stiles stared. Derek wasn’t wearing his leather jacket, had actually made the effort of wearing a clean, white shirt. A _new_ shirt.

And he’d _shaved_.

It was a good idea, Stiles mentally applauded. Derek looked a lot younger without the perpetual Alpha stubble. Stiles deliberate didn’t think about how touchable it was—then realized he probably could—about how Derek could rub his face all over Stiles and not leave beard burn and Stiles really wanted Derek to run himself _everywhere_ and—

Okay. _Now_ Stiles had pushed too far. He shook his head, and closed his eyes and thought of Finstock when he saw Derek’s nose flare and his eyes darken.

“Burgers,” Stiles blurted, and he refused to fidget when his dad looked at him in a way that meant Stiles was going to get so much shit. “We’re making burgers.”

“I brought pie,” Derek said, holding up a box.

“Excellent,” his dad said, and took the box.

“After dinner!” Stiles said to his dad, who waved over his shoulder as he disappeared past him into the kitchen, leaving Derek and Stiles alone in the hallway.

“Hey,” Stiles said.

Derek grinned with half of his mouth. “Hey.”

They stood in the hallway for a long minute.

“My God, you two are awkward,” the Sheriff said from behind Stiles. Stiles spun. His dad was leaning in the doorway. “I don’t know what I was worried about.”

“Dad,” Stiles grit out.

“Oh no,” the Sheriff said. “After all the shit you put me through, you will give me this.”

Stiles felt Derek come up behind him, and he tried to keep his heart from racing.

“I’m going to fire up the grill,” the Sheriff said. He paused, then said, snorting, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and left. Stiles stared after him for a moment.

“Do you believe I could be gay, yet?!” Stiles yelled, hearing the back door. His father only laughed.

“You’re not gay,” Derek said, low and in Stiles’s ear.

Stiles waved his hand. “Bisexual or something like it. ‘Not straight’ is the important part.” He turned and found himself _very_ close to Derek. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

Derek smelled _good_ , and it was doing _things_ to Stiles’s insides.

“Personal experience?” Stiles asked, and he could cut his mouth right out from his face because he did _not_ mean to say that.

But the gods must have been smiling on him, because Derek just shrugged, and while that _wasn’t_ an answer, it wasn’t a dismissal. It wasn’t Derek turning around and leaving before they found out if there was anything _to_ leave.

And that, paradoxically, was the greatest indicator that there _was_ something, and if Stiles didn’t get verbal confirmation of this soon, he was going to do something drastic. With mountain ash. And a baseball bat. But probably, in reality, just flail as he tried to yell and the words got stuck together behind his teeth until he just stopped because nobody was listening anyway.

Wow, Stilinski. Way to get dark.

“We should give your dad a hand,” Derek said.

“Right,” Stiles said, and finally backed up a step. Already he missed Derek’s body heat, though the scent of pine and leather and something earthy and primal that was just _Derek_ followed him, calming him even as it sped his heartbeat, and he started to ramble as they worked together to gather the rest of the cookout supplies and carry them outside.

Stiles had stopped spending time in the backyard when his mother had died, remembering too well the garden and the smell of his mother's perfume and sun on the grass and crushed herbs, and when he went outside after her funeral and smelled only baked earth, Stiles went inside and didn't go out the back door for months.

Going into the backyard now felt a little like walking into Oz, like walking into Technicolor, and really, having a bunch of Munchkins pop out of the woodwork wouldn't be _that_ far off from the strangeness that was his life. But still...

His dad was in the back corner, standing in front of the open grill, and the smell of cooking beef mingled with the wild herbs from the garden along the fence to his left. The garden had gone to seed _after_ , but the herbs she had grown were hearty, and instead of orderly patches, the herbs had erupted into a riot of a fairy garden, and Stiles could smell the wild thyme and lemongrass and mint and wondered, not for the first time, if maybe his mother was a little bit magic.

Derek was a solid presence at his back, carrying plates and napkins, and it was so different from how Stiles usually saw him—be it Alpha werewolf or late night movie date—that it just added to the general "OZ" feeling. Unlike Dorothy, however, Stiles felt like “OZ” was home.

Cue obligatory “friend of Dorothy” reference, and Stiles had officially taken this metaphor too far.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and walked over to the picnic table to unload his teetering armload, stepping around the cooler that had seen more family vacations and cookouts than Stiles had. The table was wood, grayed with age like the benches in the park, and scarred with years of Stiles’s childhood. He put his salad bowl down over his barely visible initials— _not_ S.S.—and turned to take the plates from Derek. Derek handed them over and Stiles put them down and suddenly had no idea what to do next.

“Um,” he said, because he was Stiles and silence would never work when filler would do, but his words wouldn’t come. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were words, so many words, but they all had to do with either werewolves or drag queens or kissing, and those were three very much off-limit topics when his father was around.

Not for the first time, Stiles wished his dad knew about the werewolf thing. At least then there’d be some common ground, and common ground that made Stiles sound mature and capable, which was better. Of course, it also made Stiles sound like his life was constantly in danger, which was worse, even if it was about ninety percent true.

For a brief moment, Stiles considered telling his dad about Little Red, but rejected the notion when everything seemed to seize in his chest. 

“Hey,” Derek said, quietly. “Relax.”

Stiles snorted, “Yeah, you realize why you telling me to relax is, like, the height of irony, right?”

“I’m ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife,” Derek deadpanned, and Stiles lost it, bending over in laughter. When he calmed enough to stand upright, he wiped a hand over his eyes and saw Derek smiling at him. It was his movie-date smile, and Stiles had to smile back, relaxing. Derek wasn’t separate people. Derek was Derek. Even with his monthly howling problem, Derek was more Derek than Stiles was always Stiles, and the confirmation that _this_ Derek was also _that_ Derek was enough to make Stiles feel like Stiles again.

It had been a while.

He grinned. “You totally played that album on repeat, didn’t you.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had the same P!nk album in your Jeep for three months.”

That totally _wasn’t_ a no, and Stiles would use that later. But now, his dad was coming back with a plate of burgers, grinning at the pile like he was somehow going to eat all of them, and Stiles was glad he thought to make the salad.

The Sheriff put the plate down, and Derek dug into the cooler to pull out soda for him and Stiles, Orange Slice because, contrary to popular belief, Stiles did actively try to avoid caffeine, and offered a beer to the sheriff with a raised eyebrow. Stiles’s dad took it with a nod, and a subtle glance to the soda in Derek’s hand, Coke because Derek hated artificial fruit flavors. They sat, Derek taking up the seat next to Stiles in a clear statement of intent, and Stiles felt his heart thump happily, and didn’t even try to calm it. Derek knew, there was no point, and Stiles figured Derek might actually like a reminder that he was loved— _liked!_ Liked. It was too soon to be throwing around the other “L” word.

Stiles grabbed two burgers right off the bat, pushing those thoughts away, and shoved the salad bowl pointedly towards his dad.

The Sheriff narrowed his eyes at Stiles, but took a couple scoops of salad instead of a second burger with ill grace.

Derek grabbed three burgers and a large side of salad, and Stiles raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Derek said, putting the cap back on the salad dressing.

“You’re eating vegetables,” Stiles said. 

Derek raised both his eyebrows in return. Stiles was impressed. It was like, double your eyebrows, double your sass. “It’s a salad,” Derek said, like Stiles was slow. “They tend to be made of vegetables.”

“Sassy,” Stiles said. “Cute.”

Derek grinned—that was totally a flirty grin! Derek flirty-grinned at Stiles in front of his dad, holy crap!—and took a bite.

The sheriff was snickering, and Stiles looked at him until he quieted and started to eat his own salad. Stiles smiled to himself. He didn’t know why he was worried about this dinner—so far, it was going great.

And it kept going great. Derek was—well, he was his usual socially awkward self, but he was also charming, and Stiles was sure his dad loved that Derek called Stiles on his bullshit. He had actual proof of this in the way his dad had clapped Derek on the shoulder and said that Stiles needed someone who could challenge him as much as he would challenge them—and then a crack about how Derek would need all the luck in the world, which was just _unfair_. Of course, Stiles was pretty sure his dad knew Stiles could hear him, so…

They lingered over the food until Stiles had to move or burst, and he started to clean, regretting it briefly when he came back outside to hear his dad telling Derek about how they used to play fetch with Stiles to tire him out. Stiles glared at Derek, who was _very obviously_ holding back his mocking, and Derek only muttered something about his parents doing something similar, and Stiles couldn’t use the dog joke on the tip of his tongue, and that just _hurt_.

Finally, as the sun started to set, Stiles’s dad went inside, claiming that he didn’t need to be eaten alive by mosquitoes and muttering something about catching the last of the game. They were alone.

It was quiet once Stiles’s dad went inside, the kind of summer-night quiet that’s not so much quiet as white noise: crickets and the hum of the neighbor’s pool filter and the distant cries of kids playing. Stiles and Derek sat still side-by-side and close enough that their knees brushed under the table. Stiles realized he was in no hurry to break the quiet between them. It was comfortable, for all that it was charged with _something_ a long time coming.

In the end, it _was_ Stiles that broke the silence, but the mood stayed, thick around them like steam.

“This is really happening,” Stiles said into the quiet. Derek didn’t respond, but Stiles knew he was heard, knew Derek knew what Stiles was talking about. Maybe, Derek even knew that it was supposed to be a question, but as the statement hung there between them, Stiles knew it to be true. This _was_ happening. “What _is_ happening, Derek?” Stiles said.

“You know,” Derek said quietly, the Alpha growl hiding just behind his voice, and Stiles recognized now the way Derek hid behind the Alpha’s power—and what it meant that he was _not_ hiding behind it now.

“I do,” Stiles said. “But I need to hear it from you. And I kinda think you need to say it, too.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment, but Stiles wasn’t worried. This was happening, after all. If Derek didn’t say it tonight, he’d say it tomorrow or next week. Stiles waited for Lydia in vain for ten years, he could wait for Derek to speak.

“I…” Derek cleared his throat. When he spoke again, the Alpha was gone, and he sounded very young. “I like you.” Derek sighed. “I _like_ you.”

Sometimes, Stiles had a hard time remembering that Derek wasn’t that much older than he was. In the grand scheme of things, six years wasn’t long at all. But Derek always acted so _old_.

Until he didn’t. Until Derek did something or said something that reminded Stiles how young he really was. Every time Derek mentioned reading a particular comic book, or liking a certain band or song. Or confessed his feelings like a kid at the winter formal.

But Stiles just said, “I like you, too,” because a) nobody deserved to hang in the wind with their feelings exposed like that and b) it was true. It was so true. And Stiles wished they could move past the awkward teenager stage, because he never realized how inadequate “like” was to describe what he was feeling. He’d call it love—he would, and right to Derek’s face. He wasn’t afraid of the word, of letting the people he cared about know it—but Derek _was_ afraid, and the last thing Stiles wanted to do was scare Derek away.

Derek slumped, breath catching in his throat before rushing out in a sigh. “That sounds so—” he broke off, shaking his head. “So _juvenile_ ,” Derek spat.

“Hmm, yeah,” Stiles agreed. “Good thing I like you anyway.” Stiles smiled at him, but Derek just snorted.

“I want to believe that,” Derek said quietly.

“You should,” Stiles said. “I’m the power of belief guy, remember?”

“I do,” Derek said. “It’s hard. I—” Derek swallowed, and Stiles sat up a little straighter. That sounded like Derek was actually going to _talk_.

“You know about Kate,” Derek said, quietly. Stiles didn’t answer; it wasn’t a question. Stiles wasn’t sure how Derek figured out that Stiles knew, but Stiles had put it together, had added the strange tension between Kate and Derek to the way Derek reacted to Scott and Allison and came up with Kate using Derek as a patsy.

So much of Derek had made sense after that realization. Stiles used to think that the fire had burned something away, the way it had burned Peter to crazy, but that was only half of the story. Derek had stunted with the trauma, growing around it like a tree growing around a fence, incorporating it into who he was but not integrating, so that the part of Derek that dealt with relationships was still sixteen like the way the part of Bruce Wayne that dealt with family would always be nine.

“I… for a long time I didn’t trust anything,” Derek said, so quiet Stiles had to lean forward. “I trust you, Stiles.” And it wasn’t news, Derek had told him that before, but there were _shades_ to this meaning that nearly took Stiles’s breath away. Derek looked up to meet his eyes. “But I don’t really trust myself.”

“I trust you,” Stiles said, just as quiet. He could see the acknowledgement in Derek’s eyes of what Stiles was really saying. If you can’t believe yourself, believe in my trust. But Stiles knew it wasn’t that easy, and when Derek stood, Stiles wasn’t surprised.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek said.

Stiles smiled, putting as much of the “it’s okay” and “I can wait” and “I love you” into it as he could, because even if Derek wasn’t ready to hear it, he deserved to. “Goodnight, Derek.”

Then Derek was gone, and Stiles sat in his backyard, staring at his mother’s fairy garden for a long time.

***

Little Red crouched at the front of the stage, one arm wrapped around her knees and head down as the music started, and she crooned into the mic. She raised her head as she started to sing, unfolding slowly.

_Ever wonder about what he's doing_  
 _How it all turned to lies_

She looked up and stood in one long, graceful movement.

_Sometimes I think that it's better to never ask why_

Little Red reached to the rafters and called out the chorus, and Stiles ached with the song, with the longing for something brilliant.

_Where there is desire_  
 _There is gonna be a flame_  
 _Where there is a flame_  
 _Someone's bound to get burned _  
 _But just because it burns_  
 _Doesn't mean you're gonna die_  
 _You've gotta get up and try try try_  
 _Gotta get up and try try try_  
 _You gotta get up and try try try___  


_Eh, eh, eh_

Stiles had picked this song for Little Red to sing because of this second verse, and now going into it, he let himself think of why. He thought of Derek and Kate, and let the slow burn of anger flow through Little Red’s performance. 

_Funny how the heart can be deceiving_  
 _More than just a couple times_

And Stiles thought of himself, of the way he fell quickly and hard. Lydia was hardly his Kate, but still— 

_Why do we fall in love so easy_  
 _Even when it's not right_

Little Red walked to the edge of the stage and down the stairs, her heel hitting the floor as the chorus began. The crowd parted before her, and she wandered among them as she sang. 

_Where there is desire_  
 _There is gonna be a flame_  
 _Where there is a flame_  
 _Someone's bound to get burned_  
 _But just because it burns_  
 _Doesn't mean you're gonna die_  
 _You've gotta get up and try try try_  
 _Gotta get up and try try try_  
 _You gotta get up and try try try_

And there was Derek, right there in front of him, and Stiles sang to him. 

_Ever worried that it might be ruined_

You’re not ruined. 

_And does it make you wanna cry?_

You can cry on me. 

_When you're out there doing what you're doing_  
 _Are you just getting by?_

You don’t have to do this alone. 

_Tell me are you just getting by by by_

You’re not alone anymore. 

He felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. The others in the club must have known something was up, because they all stayed back, watching this strange tableau. 

_Where there is desire_  
 _There is gonna be a flame_

I know this is scary. 

_Where there is a flame_  
 _Someone's bound to get burned_

I know that she hurt you. 

_But just because it burns_  
 _Doesn't mean you're gonna die_

I won’t let you die. 

_You've gotta get up and try try try_  
 _Gotta get up and try try try_

You have to get up. 

_You gotta get up and try try try_  
 _Gotta get up and try try try_

_You have to start living again._

_Gotta get up and try try try_  
 _You've gotta get up and try try try_  
 _Gotta get up and try try try_

_Please._

_You've gotta get up and try try try_  
 _Gotta get up and try try try_

And Derek—Derek _heard_ him, heard Stiles though Little Red, Stiles _knew_ he did because there was a look on his face that looked like such sweet hope that Stiles felt it like an ache in his chest. 

The crowd ate it up, cheering loudly, but Stiles couldn’t care about them. Not with Derek standing there, watching him with those eyes. 

“Try with me,” Stiles said with Little Red’s mouth, trusting Derek to hear him through the din. 

Derek swallowed visibly in the shifting light of the club, and nodded. 

“Stage door,” Stiles said, grinning at him. “Fifteen minutes.” 

Derek nodded again, and finally—finally—grinned. 

__

__***_ _

__

__Stiles had never stripped his look so fast in his life. In his haste, he tore his hose, tangled the hooks of his bra into the hair of his wig, and nearly broke his heel. His wig stocking practically flew off his head and he pulled his false lashes off with both hands. One hand grabbed a cotton round while the other groped for the cold cream, and Crystal grabbed it and held it out of reach._ _

__“Hold up,” Crystal said. “Who was that?”_ _

__Stiles grabbed at the cold cream, but Crystal jerked it back, and since she was in heels and Stiles wasn’t, there was no way he could reach. Stiles sighed. “You remember that problem I was working through?”_ _

__“He was a problem?” Crystal asked, clearly disbelieving. “Honey, if I only had your problems.”_ _

__Stiles snorted, “You don’t want that. Trust me. And Derek was only part of the problem.”_ _

__“Derek,” Crystal said. “Not Derek Hale?”_ _

__Stiles just smiled tightly at her and grabbed the cold cream from Crystal’s loose hands._ _

__“How did you hook up with Derek Hale?”_ _

__“I haven’t hooked up with anybody, Crystal,” Stiles said. “Trust me, you’d know already.” Stiles put some of the cream on his cotton and pressed it to his closed eye. “But yes, working through my feeling for Derek, in light of a few other issues that I’m really not getting into here, was a small part of what was getting me so down.” Stiles wiped his eye, and the soaked in cream took most of the make up with it. He did the same to the other eye._ _

__Crystal arched one drawn on eyebrow at him. “You know that’s not enough information.”_ _

__“I met him in the woods with my best friend about a year ago. We’ve kind of been circling around each other ever since. We started hanging out at the beginning of the summer and my hopeless crush turned out to be not so hopeless.”_ _

__Stiles took another cotton round and started in on the rest of his paint. “He was burned pretty badly a few years ago, and that’s a horrible way to say that, Stiles, fuck.” Stiles sighed, adjusted the pad in his hand, and said, “We’re both picking ourselves back up.”_ _

__Crystal watched him in the mirror for a long moment, then nodded and stepped back so Stiles could pull on his jeans and T-shirt. She watched as he packed up his backpack._ _

__“Stiles,” she said, as he turned to go. Stiles looked back. “Good luck.”_ _

__Stiles grinned and paused just long enough to pull Crystal into a tight up. “Thank you,” Stiles said. It wasn’t nearly enough for all that Crystal had done for him, but there was no time._ _

__Stiles burst through the stage door to find Derek where he had been last week, leaning against his car. He looked a little more nervous, but Stiles was the only one who would really pick up on that, and the fucking _weight_ of that was really sinking in. Stiles skittered to a stop in front of Derek, bag banging against his leg. He wanted to reach out and touch, to pull him in—he wanted too much, he had no idea where to start._ _

__Derek seemed just as paralyzed, staring at Stiles with something like disbelief—like he couldn’t believe Stiles was there, was real, was _going to kiss him, now-Now-NOW.__ _

__Stiles dropped his bag to the ground and stepped right into Derek’s space, raising his hands to hold Derek’s face, feeling the scratch of his stubble against his palms, softer than he would have expected, and wasn’t that just Derek all over. But Stiles had no time to muse over the metaphor as he brought their mouths together, pulling Derek from his shock with the wet press of lips._ _

__Derek parted his mouth with a ghost of a breath, licking gently at Stiles’s lip as he cupped Stiles’s shoulders, moving his hands over to rest on his neck, his hand big and warm and Stiles could feel his pulse beat out against Derek’s palm and— _God_ —they were kissing. Hungry kisses like the first meal after a long fast, and Stiles ran his hand down Derek’s chest to curl around his waist and pull him closer, startling a noise out of Derek that quickly turned into a groan._ _

__Stiles felt his skin prickle, and he shivered with something that wasn’t cold, even as he curled into Derek’s solid warmth. The lingering heat of the night surrounded them and Derek wasn’t wearing his jacket. His shirt was stuck to him from the swelter of the club, and Stiles _didn’t care_ , just wanted to get closer. Wanted to crawl inside, wanted to wrap Derek up and _never let go_._ _

__When spots started to swim in Stiles’s vision, he pulled away with a gasp, drawing in great breaths of air even as Derek stole his breath with little nibbles and nips at his jaw, and Stiles gladly bared his throat._ _

__The stage door opened, and Derek froze. Stiles looked over his shoulder, but it was just Barb going home for the night._ _

__“We shouldn’t do this here,” Derek said. “Too public.”_ _

__Stiles nodded. While he wouldn’t _necessarily_ mind making out in public—everyone else seemed to enjoy it and, dammit, he wanted in on the action—it probably wasn’t a good idea to make out with his twenty-something boyfriend where people could see and report back to his dad, even if his dad had all but given them his blessing. There were some things no parent needed to know about their son._ _

__“We can go back to mine,” Stiles said. “Put a movie on and not watch it.” Derek had these little dimples that crinkled his stubble when he smiles, and Stiles really wanted to lick them._ _

__“I’m not having sex with you in your dad’s living room,” Derek said._ _

__Stiles rolled his eyes. “We will discuss that rule at a later date. But tonight—fine. As much as I want to have _all_ the sex, I know enough about myself that I don’t really want to go from first kiss to first time in one night.”_ _

__“First kiss?” Derek asked, sounding slightly stricken._ _

__Stiles shrugged. “I’m not counting dares or that one night with Scott when we were thirteen and just wanted to know what kissing was like. I mean—no. This, is my first kiss where it _means something_.” Stiles stroked his thumb across Derek’s cheekbone, marveling at how soft the skin was. “So you can stop your freak out. We’re doing this. And now we’re here, and I’m happy to just revel in the fact that I get to make out with you. We don’t have to go any further until you’re ready.”_ _

__Derek growled, just a little bit, at the back of his throat. “I’m not the virgin,” Derek said._ _

__Stiles rolled his eyes. “And that, right there, is the problem. But I’m not going into that right now. Now, you’re going to get into your car, and I’m gonna get my jeep, and we’re going to go to my place and make out until my mouth is numb. Got it?”_ _

__“Got it,” Derek said._ _

__Still, it took another fifteen minutes for them to separate and drive. Stiles’s mouth tingled the entire way home, and he kept finding himself pressing his fingers to his lips to make the tingle burn just a little._ _

__They put on Fantastic Four. Neither of them paid it the slightest bit attention._ _


	6. Glitter in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Have you ever wished for an endless night?  
>  Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight  
> Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself   
> Will it ever get better than tonight?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to proxydialogue, who helped me immensely with my last minute set list change, and raving_liberal, who is the best of betas.

_You seriously need to consider shaving as a valid lifestyle._

Stiles pressed send and dropped his phone on his bed, rubbing his hand over his raw jawline. The skin felt dry to the touch and ached like the skin around his nose after a cold, but the pain flared something low in his belly as he remembered just how, exactly, he'd gotten the beard burn in the first place. 

His phone beeped. _You'll toughen up eventually._

Stiles snorted. "You're a dick," he muttered, and typed exactly that. 

_You like it :P_

Stiles blinked, startled into laughter. _Emoticons?_ he sent, ignoring the ways that he very much liked it. They hadn't gone further than making out, but holy crap —If that was just making out, the sex might just kill him.

_:^*_

Stiles took it back. _Derek_ was going to kill him. Movie nights, insane make outs, and now adorkable texting?

_< 3_

If Stiles were a better person, he'd feel bad for what he was going to put Scott through in the coming weeks. But Stiles wasn't, and he owed Scott for the Allisonocalypse. He grinned when his phone beeped again...

_(*^.^*)_

...and nearly dropped the phone, he laughed so hard, because _Derek texted Japanese schoolgirl emoticons._ Wiping his eyes, he went to search for breakfast.

Stiles hadn't counted on his father being home, let alone eating cereal in the kitchen. Still, Stiles was in too good of a mood to be really put out, and dug into the refrigerator for milk and orange juice and eggs, balancing them in his arms as he kicked the door shut with his foot.

"If you're making eggs—"

"You have your Cheerios," Stiles said. "They're even honey nut."

"I can't have eggs, now?" Stiles's dad protested. "I'm not even asking for bacon or cheese." Stiles shot his dad a look over his shoulder. His dad raised an eyebrow. "Tell you what. You make me eggs, and I won’t ask you about what happened to your face."

Stiles could _feel_ his heart stuttering in his chest. "Scrambled or scrambled?" he asked, and pulled an extra two eggs out of the carton.

"Scrambled is good," his dad said. "Of course, if you feel like talking..."

"You're surprisingly calm about this," Stiles said.

His dad sighed. "Stiles. You are, without a doubt, the biggest pain in my ass when you act without thinking. But you're my son, and you're your mother's son, and that means for as much as you don't think through, you over-think everything else. You wouldn't treat your heart recklessly, and you wouldn't treat Derek's that way, either." His dad paused and leveled a _look_ at Stiles. "And anyway, my telling you not to see him wouldn't actually stop you."

Stiles had to look away. That was true.

It was moments like this that Stiles hated not being completely honest with his dad the most. Here he was, saying how responsible Stiles was, and Stiles still had to lie about ninety percent of his life.

"That being said," his dad went on, "I don't want to hear it, see it, and if you go that far you use protection, do you understand?"

_Oh, God._

"Yes," Stiles said, strangled. "But...we're—"

The Sheriff held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. There are some things I don't need to know about my own son."

Stiles nodded and turned back to the eggs. They were more browned around the edged than he usually liked, but they weren't burnt. He plated the eggs, and sat at the table with his dad, feeling at once like they used to and like something had changed, matured, between them.

***

When Stiles checked his phone again, there were four missed texts: a mass text from Derek, _Pack Meeting @ 3_ ; a private message from Derek, _come over early?_ ; and two from Scott, _ride? y/y?_ and _nm, Allison sd y._

Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course “Allison” was the only thing Scott wrote out fully. Still, that solved one problem. He shot a quick text to Derek. — _I can be there in 30?_ — and went to take a shower.

There was a message waiting for him when he came back. _*\o/*_.

 _dork_ Stiles sent, and dressed as quickly as he could.

***

Stiles parked next to Derek’s Camaro, using the momentum of his slide out of the driver’s seat to jog towards the front door. It was amazing the difference even basic renovations could make. Stiles wasn’t entirely sure why Derek had started to renovate—he had a sneaking suspicion that Peter had just called the contractors without Derek’s approval, and by the time Derek found out he didn’t really have a choice—but there was no denying that it had been a smart move. As long as the house had stayed a burned out husk, the pack couldn’t really heal. It was a wound, festering. Stiles wondered how much of Derek’s willingness to start this _thing_ with Stiles had a direct correlation to him no longer living in the ruins of his old life. Probably a lot. Derek was the type to be very susceptible to metaphor.

Stiles took the porch steps two at a time, not at all surprised when the door opened before he could knock. Derek stood shoeless in the doorway, smooth cheeks still damp at the edges, and just _looked_ at Stiles. Stiles looked right back—it was unfair that even Derek’s feet were attractive—until he shoved his hands into his back pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, you going to invite me in or what?”

“You’re lucky if he remembers how to speak,” said Peter from behind Derek. Derek’s eyes closed, and Stiles rolled his eyes. Great. Just what they needed. Uncle Creeper. “He’s been waiting by the door for almost twenty minutes.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?” Derek snapped.

“Not really,” Peter said. “But I have no great desire to bear witness to your awkward courtship, either.” He stepped around Derek, and Stiles moved aside to let Peter pass. Peter paused next to Stiles. “Good luck,” he said, and ran off into the woods. Probably to eat an innocent little fluffy bunny. Stiles stared at the spot where he disappeared. Creep.

Derek cleared his throat. “Come on in,” he said, stepping back.

Stiles stepped through the door and looked around. The house was more decorated than the last time he visited, and it looked more like a home than a showroom. There were more throw pillows than Stiles ever thought would be necessary, which felt a lot like Scott and his tendency to snuggle, yet they were all tasteful accent pieces, and that screamed of Lydia. The couches were plush and dark—Derek and Isaac—and there was a faux bearskin rug from IKEA that Stiles was pretty sure fit with Erica’s sense of humor. The entertainment unit was dark wood and second hand, though well kept—Danny—and the electronics were high end—Jackson. Even Peter’s desk, which Stiles noticed was still absent the laptop, _goddammit,_ told of the pack. Of everyone except for Stiles.

And really, that was Stiles’s own fault for staying away for so long, but it still caused a pang in his chest. There was nothing of him here.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, who was hovering in the doorway, uncertain.

“The pack has really settled in,” Stiles said, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Derek looked around, vaguely surprised, as if noticing for the first time how much the room screamed _pack_.

Derek nodded slowly. “It… wasn’t planned. They’re over here a lot,” he said.

Stiles felt a little better, knowing that it wasn’t on purpose. He couldn’t really get mad when he had been the one to keep himself away. He flopped down onto the couch, sprawling. “So, did you have a particular reason for inviting me over early?” he asked. He paused, then leered, “Or is this a booty-call?”

Derek rolled his eyes and sat, but his ears turned red. Stiles sat up straight. “This _is_ a booty call!”

“I just wanted to spend some time with you before everybody got here,” Derek said.

Stiles grinned, twisting to shuffle forward on his knees and straddle Derek’s thighs, arms braced on the back of the couch on either side of Derek’s head. Derek leaned back, surprised, but his hands came up to brace Stiles when he nearly overbalanced. “Because you can’t keep your hands off me,” Stiles said, touching his forehead to Derek’s.

“I could if I had to,” Derek said. His voice had softened, dropped, and Stiles couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop himself from leaning in.

“Liar,” Stiles said against Derek’s lips, teasing, and Derek opened his mouth, drawing Stiles in with tongue and teeth, swallowing the little moans and sighs Stiles couldn’t help but make. Derek’s hands were flexing on Stiles’s hips, thumbs working their way under Stiles’s shirt to brush against bare skin. Stiles shifted his weight to move his hands, because he had to touch, and froze when Derek froze because he had pressed his hips against Derek’s and— _oh God_ —that was Derek’s dick, hard and thick and pressed right against his own, and Stiles bit his lip it felt so good.

Derek made a sound in the back of his throat, high and needy and hot as fuck and then Stiles was _moving,_ Derek was _moving_ him, grinding up against him and Stiles was so on board with this plan, he was _on top_ of this, unfreezing and writhing, just moving with Derek as he tried to touch everywhere. Stiles had never been this turned on in his _life,_ and that included that night with _that_ website, and he wasn’t going to think of porn now when he had Derek bucking like a wild thing underneath him and coming in his pants was a thing that was going to happen _soon_.

“Stiles,” Derek gasped, breaking the kiss and pressing his head back, baring his throat, and Stiles had to lick it, had to suck a mark right over the vein for the broken sound Derek made, had to bite down because Derek was _his_ and—

Out of the corner of his yes, Stiles swore he saw a flash of teeth, of Alpha red eyes before Derek’s face crumpled into something that was pained and joyous all at once, mouth open without sound as Derek squeezed Stiles’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Stiles gaped because Derek had just— _Stiles_ had just made Derek come _in his pants_ , and it was the look in Derek’s eyes after, warm and dark and full of _promise_ , that sent Stiles over the edge like a brick to the back of his head, and he arched, muscles drawn tight before slumping forward to miss bashing his forehead against Derek’s noise by mere inches. He was panting, they both were, and even Stiles could smell them, which meant Derek must be drowning in it.

Pushing himself up on a shaking arm, Stiles looked down at Derek, about to ask if Derek was okay. Then Derek opened his eyes, and they were calm and happy, and Stiles grinned and tried to kiss him, but he was smiling too widely to do more than press their mouths together briefly. They lay like that, foreheads pressed together and just _looking_ until the sticky mess in Stiles’s pants started to cool and he shifted, making a face.

“We should clean up,” Derek said. He pushed and lifted Stiles off of him, holding him until Stiles caught his balance and could stand.

“You know,” Stiles said as he followed Derek up the stairs and into what was apparently Derek’s bedroom. He looked around as they walked; he’d never been up this way before. “We’re going to need to talk about your manhandling me, at some point.” Derek opened the dresser drawer and seemed to stiffen, so Stiles hastened to add, “It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s kinda more the opposite, actually. I know myself well enough to know that I find being manhandled hot, just be careful of doing it in front of the others. While I am kinda used to popping a boner at inconvenient times, they don’t need to smell that.” Stiles stepped up close and wrapped his arms around Derek, holding him close until Derek unclenched. “What we do in bed—or on the couch—is between us.”

Derek turned in Stiles’s arms, and Stiles loved the fact that he and Derek were practically the same height, that he could look into Derek’s eyes at an even level. “I won’t hide us,” Derek said.

“I’m not asking you to,” Stiles said. “A) It won’t take much for them to figure out what we were up to and B) even if we could keep it a secret from them, I wouldn’t want to. They’re pack. And I’m proud of you. Of us.” Stiles didn’t add that he thought adding another secret relationship to Derek’s love life was a disaster waiting to happen, mostly because it seemed like Derek already knew that. Derek bumped their foreheads together again and handed over a clean pair of cotton boxer briefs.

“You can leave yours in the hamper, if you want,” Derek said. “I’m doing laundry tomorrow.” Stiles took the boxers with a smirk and quickly stepped into the en suite bathroom to clean himself off, dropping his boxers into the hamper with a little flutter. His boyfriend for twenty-four hours, and already they were mixing laundry. He shook his head at himself and stepped back out to find Derek waiting for his turn.

Stiles poked around Derek’s bedroom while he waited. It was surprisingly light for someone addicted to dark colors, and who had lived like a hobo hermit for nearly a year. The walls were grey, yes, but pale enough to be nearly white. The bed was blonde wood, and made, if not neatly, with white sheets and a green comforter. There wasn’t a lot of decoration, but it didn’t feel like a hotel room, either.

Derek emerged as Stiles was poking at his bookshelf—a stack of pulp mysteries from the library and a biography of Tesla? Really?—and he raised an eyebrow at Stiles. “What?”

“Nothing!” Stiles said. “Just never saw you as a paperback kind of guy.”

Derek shrugged. “Mysteries have solutions,” he said, and Stiles nodded. Of course Derek would like stories that have an _answer._

Derek gestured for Stiles to lead the way back downstairs, and Stiles jogged down the stairs before being in Derek’s _bedroom_ near Derek’s _bed_ gave him _ideas._

Stiles resumed his sprawl on the couch, because that was how Stiles sat on couches that were uber comfy, and thought idly of the blanket in his closet at home, the one that he pulled out during marathons when he expected to fall asleep in front of the television. It would be perfect to throw over the back of this couch. Derek sat at Stiles’s head, and after a few moments of shuffling, Stiles lay with his head in Derek’s lap.

Derek turned the TV on, and settled on FX’s Marvel Movie Marathon. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen yet, and it was good background noise. Derek’s hand settled on Stiles’s head, his fingers scratching against the grain of Stiles’s hair, and Stiles felt his eyes flutter with pleasure as his toes curled.

“You’re like a cat,” Derek muttered, but didn’t stop, so Stiles was prepared to let that one pass.

After a few long minutes of comfortable silence, Stiles settled enough to ask, “So, is there something evil actively on the horizon, or is this just business as usual.”

Derek hummed. “There’s always something evil on the horizon,” he said, but he didn’t sound particularly worried. Stiles snorted.

“Okay, Mad-eye. I get it. Constant vigilance.” It wasn’t a bad policy, and despite Stiles’s tone, one he agreed with. There was a very good reason why he studied so hard with Deaton, why he craved Peter’s laptop.

Around noon, Derek stood and made them lunch while Stiles sat at the kitchen table and told Derek about what he was learning with Deaton, how it was a lot more than just mountain ash and wolfsbane. He told Derek about his mother’s garden, and his suspicions about the types of plants she grew.

“It’s like—everywhere I turn there’s something else supernatural about this town. I wonder if it’s just here, or if everywhere’s like this.

Derek shrugged, handed Stiles his plate. “New York was different. More open. Less traditional. But also easier to hide.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles said. “That makes sense. I mean, it’s a large city. Kinda goes with the territory. Still. There’s enough magic cropping up that I’m starting to question my own reality.”

“Maybe the magic’s there because you’re magic,” Derek said, sitting down. “I mean, Peter knows more than I do about it, but what I understand is that magic creates itself. So the more you learn, the more magic exists.”

“That’s some philosophy shit,” Stiles said around a large bite of his sandwich. He swallowed. “Cogito ergo hocus pocus.”

Derek snorted and bit into his own lunch. Stiles sobered as he chewed. “You think it’ll be enough? For whatever’s coming next?”

“Yes,” Derek said.

“How do you know?” Stiles asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the bread.

“Because _I_ believe,” Derek said.

Stiles let his mouth quirk into a little smile. “We’re going to be indestructible.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “I think we already are.”

Stiles smiled and believed.

***

Jackson was the first to arrive, driving his obnoxious Porsche obnoxiously while Lydia sat like a queen in the passenger seat and Danny fit himself, somehow, into the back. Stiles and Derek had moved back to the couch, trading lazy kisses, when Derek stiffened, tilting his head to hear. He settled back, relaxing just as Stiles was able to hear the engine, and Stiles slumped over, hiding his face in Derek’s shoulder.

“I don’t wanna deal with the dick,” Stiles muttered.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with mine,” Derek muttered. Stiles snickered and ran his fingers across Derek’s stomach, not really trying to tickle, but the implication was strong enough as Derek grabbed Stiles’s wrist.

“Funny man,” Stiles said and pushed himself up, raising his eyebrow when he couldn’t tug free. “You really want the pack to find me in your lap?”

“The thought had occurred,” Derek said, running his thumb along the tender skin on the inside of Stiles’s wrist.

There was no way they could hide it. If the lingering spunk smell from before didn’t clue them in, there was still no way to deny that they had been making out for—jeez, like, 2 hours. Or that Derek wasn’t sporting his Alpha stubble. Or that Stiles wasn’t one big ball of want.

Stiles grinned and sank back down. “I just I had my camera for Jackson’s face,” he muttered and kissed Derek as the man himself opened the door and Lydia walked inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

“Derek?” Danny called out. “Stiles?”

“You said three—oh!” Lydia said, as she walked around the couch. Stiles waved in her general direction with his fingers, but didn’t move as he lazily finished the kiss. When he finally looked, she had recovered and was smirking at them with an glint in her eyes that made Stiles, just for a moment, want to flee in terror. Danny looked surprised, but more that they had been caught kissing than that it was _them_ kissing. He also looked like he approved, and not that Stiles needed anybody’s approval, but it was good to have it from Danny. And Jackson—Stiles had to beam at him—Jackson looked like he just walked in on his parents having sex, possibly recreating a page from the Kama Sutra. Stiles quickly snapped a picture with his phone, setting it as Jackson’s contact picture as Derek sat up, and Stiles slid to the side.

“Did I just get punk’d?” Jackson asked.

“Not everything is about you, Jackson,” Stiles said, grinning up at them.

“I take it this is new?” Danny said, sitting on the armchair and pulling Jackson down to sit on the floor in front of his legs. Stiles was only a little surprised when Jackson didn’t fight; either he was more gobsmacked than Stiles had previously thought, or Danny was just that awesome. Lydia perched on the arm of the chair, and Stiles did not like her silence.

“New enough,” Derek said. He relaxed into the seat, much like he did in Stiles’s living room, pulling Stiles in close with an arm around his shoulder. Stiles raised an eyebrow at that because, _Alpha-male much?_ but settled into the hold, because well, touch was good, and Stiles had more to worry about than posturing. Like the way Lydia took in the motion, Stiles’s allowance of the motion, and filed it away.

Don’t get him wrong, Stiles was _all about_ Lydia being on his side, but she was still a little scary.

“What, Lydia?” Stiles said. Best get it out now.

Lydia just shrugged, and pulled a nail file out of seemingly thin air, because _Lydia._ Looking down at her nails, she said, “Nothing. Just...” her eyes flicked up to them, then back down. “Hurt him and I’ll use you to do that live autopsy I’ve always wanted to try.” Even Danny looked at her at that one. She buffed her nails on her shirt and said, “And yes, that goes for both of you. Are we clear?” She looked at them both now.

“Crystal,” Stiles said.

The door banged open, and Scott slunk in, clutching Allison’s hand and obviously sheepish about forgetting his own strength. Again. Allison was pink, and Stiles had a good idea about what was occupying Scott’s mind.

“Sorry,” Scott said, sitting on the couch next to Stiles, pulling Allison into his lap, holding his fist out to Stiles to bump. He looked over at the three on the chair. “What broke Jackson?”

“They walked in on kisses,” Stiles said.

“Ah,” Scott said, while Allison giggled and looked at Lydia to have a rather elaborate conversation with their eyebrows. Stiles was impressed. He’s never known anybody but Scott and himself to communicate that way. He’d tried with Derek once, but Derek had so much it was like he was just shouting the entire time… it was a mess. Scott paused. “Kisses or _kisses_?”

“ _Kisses_ ,” Stiles said.

“Dude,” Scott said, and they brofisted again. Allison even held out her fist, and Stiles had to grin at that as they bumped, because seriously, for as much shit as he gave Scott, Allison really was kinda awesome.

Isaac drifted in, sniffing at the threshold and looking at Stiles with wide eyes. He smiled, all tooth and angles under that mop of curls, and lay on the loveseat without comment. Boyd and Erica were fast on his heels, piling on him. Boyd paused for a moment, looking over Derek and Stiles and nodding in that serious way of his. Erica, once they were settled and she lay in her boys’ laps, grinned slow and dirty at Stiles.

“Way to go, Batman, but what would Lois Lane, think?”

“That she’s broken the story of the century,” Stiles said. “You know she ships it.”

“She ships herself in-between,” Erica shot back.

“Who wouldn’t?” Stiles said.

“I’m more of a Marvel fan,” Derek said.

“And that is a metaphor if I’ve ever heard one,” Peter said, and Stiles tensed. He hadn’t noticed anyone come in. _Fuck_. Peter looked around at the tense faces. “And that’s yet another mood killed. You better get to the point, Derek, before the natives get restless.”

“School is starting soon,” Derek said. “We won’t be able to come and go the same way as over the summer, and we’re more connected than we were last year. We need to make plans. Set up some kind of schedule so we all get time together, regardless of what happens in life.”

If Stiles hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have seen it, the way Peter’s face softened for a moment in memory. Stiles would bet any money that the Hales had had some kind of family night, where everybody would gather no matter what. Stiles looked away.

“I have a lot of board games,” Scott said. “We can have a board game night. But not _Clue_.”

Stiles snorted. “That’s just cause I always beat your ass at _Clue._ ”

“Yep.” Scott grinned.

“When?” Danny asked. “We have lacrosse practice on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

“Not Thursday,” Stiles said. That got him some odd looks, and Danny looked at him, mostly repressing a smile. Stiles smiled back, cool.

“Not Saturday,” Lydia said. “Some of us will have other social obligations to attend to.”

“You mean parties,” Derek said.

Lydia tossed her hair. “It would be suspicious if we stopped altogether.”

“Sunday?” Allison suggested. “No school to worry about, and not a day that people usually plan parties and things. No games or meets, either.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Peter said.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “It does.”

***

The pack meeting went on after that, but with the main business attended to it devolved into a group of teens (plus Hales) hanging out. Scott pulled out the Xbox and challenged Stiles. Lydia and Allison sat on the couch and stared at Derek until he grabbed a third controller. Danny and Jackson went outside with the trio to work off some energy, and Peter sat with his laptop, trying to appear adult and mature, but Stiles had caught a glimpse of _Jurassic Park Builder._

Finally, Allison had to leave, which meant Scott left. Lydia gathered Jackson and Danny and was out the door before Stiles figured out what they were planning on doing next, and the trio slipped away without him noticing.

Derek walked Stiles to his jeep, and they lost long minutes kissing in the humid twilight, neither one wanting to be the first to let go.

It was a good day.

 

***

 

The rest of the week passed in a happy blur. He made out with Derek, studied with Deaton, made out with Derek, hung out with Scott, made out with—

Well. You get the picture.

Stiles practically floated into the dressing room of _The Jungle_ that Thursday, grinning widely at the whistles he received.

“That is the smile of a happy man,” Lois called out.

“Or a lucky bitch,” Barb countered.

“Little Red here happens to be both,” Crystal said, coming out from behind the rice paper screen. “Which means details, Hunty, sit down and tell Auntie Crystal _all_ about it.”

“What?” Stiles said, sitting at the makeup booth. “You think I’m just going to tell you that _my boyfriend_ is an amazing kisser? That I could make out with him all day, every day, and that we’ve been doing our damndest to make that a reality? That _yes,_ he is as built as he looks and _no_ , you’re not getting more than that?” Stiles paused. “That I think I’m in love?”

Lois and Barb looked ready to melt into puddles of goo, and Crystal looked so proud. Sugar, however, looked skeptical.

“You’ve been with _that_ for a week, and all you’ve done is kiss?” Sugar tsked. “I don’t believe it.”

Barb smacked the back of Sugar’s head, and Stiles rolled his eyes. “We’re taking things at the speed we need to take them,” he said. Turning, he pulled out his case and started to lay his foundation. “And you can say what you want, I’m enjoying the ride.”

Crystal smiled at him in the mirror. “Good for you, girl.”

***

The piano started to play softly, and the spotlight slowly lit the single standing mic to show Little Red, standing with her head bowed, her arms wrapped around herself. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet the audience,

_Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands?_   
_Close your eyes and trusted, just trusted_

Little Red closed her eyes, raising her hands to cradle the mic, and Stiles ached with the sweetness of the lyrics. It all came down to trust.

_Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?_

Stiles opened Little Red’s eyes, looking out over the audience, looking for Derek. There. By the bar. Stiles sang to him.

_Have you ever looked fear in the face_   
_And said I just don't care?_

Fear had defined his life, _both_ of their lives, for far too long. Stiles wasn’t going to let it define this, too. He pulled the mic from the stand, and Little Red stepped forward.

_And it's only half past the point of no return_   
_The tip of the iceberg_   
_The sun before the burn_   
_The thunder before the lightning_   
_Breath before the phrase_   
_Have you ever felt this way?_

It was a love song, it was _their_ kind of love song.

_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?_   
_You're whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone_

They had both been so alone. Stiles didn’t know what he would have done if Derek hadn’t snuck through his window so many weeks ago and reached out. What Derek would have done if Stiles hadn’t gripped back, just as tight.

_Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?_   
_Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?_

Stiles saw Derek smirk, and he got the joke, let Little Red’s mouth curl into an ironic smile. They had each let the other in, had come tumbling through each other’s defenses like some sort of fate…

_It's only half past the point of oblivion_   
_The hourglass on the table_   
_The walk before the run_   
_The breath before the kiss_   
_And the fear before the flames_   
_Have you ever felt this way?_

…and they were perched on the precipice.

_La la la la la la la la_

Little Red walked to the front of the stage as she sang and reached out a hand to the audience, playing it up, but singing to Derek.

_There you are, sitting in the garden_

Derek, rosy-gold in the setting sun as he sat with Stiles by his mother’s fairy garden, sharing a quiet moment—

_Clutching my coffee,_

—stealing sips of Stiles’s soda when he thinks Stiles can’t see—

_Calling me sugar_

—text messages that tease with names like “honeycakes” and “sweetbuns” that turns into a contest to see who can come up with the most saccharine name—

_You called me sugar_

—“So sweet,” Derek whispered into Stiles’s mouth, and Stiles had to pull him tight for the thrill that ran through him—

Little Red lowered her head, looking down as she had at the beginning.

_Have you ever wished for an endless night?_   
_Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight_   
_Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself_   
_Will it ever get better than tonight?_

Little Red looked up, and Stiles saw Derek smile. _Perfect,_ he thought.

_Tonight_

As the lights dimmed, Stiles kept his eyes on Derek. “Tonight,” Derek mouthed. Stiles felt his heart race, and he grinned into the dark.

***

Derek was waiting by the doors once again, and Stiles threw himself at him, trusting Derek to catch him, wrapping his legs around Derek’s waist. Derek staggered for a step, but caught Stiles with enough ease, kissing him like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, let alone hours.

Someone wolf-whistled behind them, and Stiles pulled away to see Crystal and the other girls still in drag and hanging out the door.

“Oh,” Sugar protested, lightly smacking Barb on the arm. “You made them stop!”

“Please continue,” Crystal said. “We need to get our vicarious jollies somewhere.”

Stiles snorted and didn’t let go, though he did put his legs down. “Derek, meet the girls. Girls, this is Derek.”

“Uh. Hi,” Derek said, lifting one hand off of Stiles’s waist to wave.

Crystal snickered. “Well, aren’t you adorable. We won’t keep you,” she said, pulling the other girls back. “Next time bring him around earlier. We promise we won’t bite.”

“Says _you,_ ” Stiles heard Lois protest as the door closed behind them.

“Is your dad expecting you home tonight?” Derek asked, still looking at the door.

Stiles grinned. “Night shift.” He licked his bottom lip. “Am I going to get to try out that bed of yours?”

Derek paused, thinking about it, then grimaced. “Peter and Isaac are home.”

“Right,” Stiles said. “Then in ten minutes, you better be in my room.”

Derek flashed a grin. “Race you.”


	7. Little Red Riding Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey there little red riding hood. You sure are looking good. You’re everything a big bad wolf could want”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to proxydialogue who took a break from writing to beta this for me. if you know anything about her, i have just conquered the tasks of Hercules. 
> 
> Okay, last chapter people! All that's left is an epilogue...

No matter how much he pushed and pleaded, Stiles knew that his baby jeep could never beat the Camaro when it came to pure speed. Still, he took every detour, shortcut, pathway he could to catch up, and it’s a testament to his skill that he managed to keep the camaro mostly in sight. Derek was still parked and waiting for him when he pulled up. Whatever, it didn’t matter that Derek got there first. What mattered was that Stiles was there _now._

Stiles shook as he threw the jeep into park, nearly strangling himself with his seatbelt as he tumbled from the seat, scrambling upright and only just remembering to slam the door behind him as he ran for the front door. He heard the Camaro park on the street, and managed to get the key in the lock when Derek was there, pressed right up behind him, his face pressed into Stiles’s neck as he _breathed,_ his arms wrapped around Stiles’s middle.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Stiles whined, pressing back into Derek, trying to unlock the door, and he couldn’t think, _fucking keysI_ but somehow, the door opened before them and they were across the threshold, Stiles twisting with just enough surprise to shut the door, and push Derek against it.

“Sex,” Stiles said, in between kisses. “You. Me. Now?”

“Yes,” Derek said. “Now.”

“ _Fuck_ yes!” Stiles crowed. He grabbed Derek by the front of his shirt and yanked him across the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom.

Stiles pulled Derek through the doorway, closing it behind them and crowding Derek's space until Derek was pressed, back against the door. Derek's hands cupped Stiles's head, pulling him in to kiss, open mouthed and biting. 

"You..." Stiles mumbled, trailing off to mouth at Derek's jaw, nipping as he went. Derek was panting, loud and heavy, in Stiles's ear, his hands coming around to cup Stiles's shoulders, to run his nails down Stiles's back. Stiles arched into the touch, and yanked at Derek's shirt until Derek staggered forward, pulling his shirt off and guiding Stiles to the bed. The edge hit Stiles's knees and he went down, overbalanced and pulling Derek with him. 

Derek caught them as best he could, preventing them from cracking heads, and kept kissing him. Everything was bright and wonderful, and Stiles laughed into Derek's mouth. It was enough to get Derek to pull back, just for a moment, but Derek was grinning, wide like Stiles had never seen, a smile _just for Stiles._

"Me?" Derek asked, smug as fuck, but just as breathless as Stiles felt. 

"You need to be naked," Stiles said, surging up and pulling Derek's shirt up and over his head, catching the collar on Derek's chin, his nose, and Derek just laughed, let himself be stripped, let Stiles look his fill. 

Stiles ran his hand up Derek's side, watching the muscled jump and twitch. "It's not fair," Stiles said. "Perfect abs have to be a side effect, because you're just inhuman." 

"You found us out," Derek deadpanned, pulling Stiles up by the hips to straddle Derek's lap. Stiles went, distracted, and pressed into the touch when Derek ran his hands under Stiles's shirt. Derek's hands were warm, firm with hidden strength, and Stiles let them pull his shirt off. The changing room at _The Jungle_ had done far more for Stiles's comfort in his own body than the locker rooms at the high school—it was hard to think he was scrawny when he had Lois looking like a scarecrow next to him—but there was still that moment of panic when Derek saw him shirtless for the first time, even though Derek had to have known what he looked like, he'd had his hands all over him.

Derek was quiet, and Stiles fought against the urge to fidget. Stiles twitched, and just when he was about to reach out for Derek, Derek leaned in, laying Stiles back against the bedspread, lowering his mouth to Stiles's chest and mouthing at a freckle. Stiles's breath caught, and he bit his lip against a whimper when Derek dragged his lips across skin to another freckle, quietly mapping out patterns on Stiles's skin. Derek nipped at one in the hollow just below Stiles's sternum. 

"Derek..." Stiles said. 

Derek kissed him and Stiles felt it like static electricity all the way down to his toes, the same way he felt his magic, and Stiles laughed, breaking the mood but not the energy, letting it flow around them and build into something joyous as he fumbled with the clasps of Derek's pants. 

Sitting in Derek's lap as he was, Stiles couldn't actually get Derek's pants off, or his own for that matter, but he could get them open, could press against Dereks front and let the press of skin against skin spark in his mind. It was Derek that lifted them up, standing just long enough to let his pants drop, baring himself, and to pull at Stiles's boxers when his own pants fell. 

Then they were naked, and Stiles pounced, pushing Derek back onto the bed, crawling on top and sliding his body up Derek's as he went to watch the way Derek's eyes rolled back in his head, to feel the way Derek's hands grabbed at his arms, his shoulders.

It was so much better than making out, Derek's heat, the catch of hair as fingers dragged across skin, the slick slide as his own naked sex pressed against Derek's, hard and red and suddenly desperate. 

Derek moved and Stiles stuttered, trying to match the rhythm, and the first perfect movement, the first time they _got it,_ in synch and fluid, Stiles cried out. 

" _Oh!_ " he gasped. "Yes, fuck, there. Right there. You feel so good, you're so hard--" and fuck it if Stiles didn't sound like the worst sort of porn, but Derek made a desperate sounds, pulled stiles down tighter, so Stiles didn't even try to stop, saying anything that popped into his head. "I wanna--fuck--I wanna do so much, I have _lists_ of things to try-- _shit_ \--positions and tricks and toys. I wanna get you so hot, I wanna leave you _wrecked._ Gonna--gonna climb you like a tree and fucking move in, I wanna--I wanna fuck you--" 

Derek's hips stuttered, and Stiles paused, thinking back on what he said. "You like that idea? You want it? You want me to fuck you?" 

Again that motion and Derek groaned, craning up to lick at Stiles's neck. Stiles's eyes rolled at the feeling, but he was grinning because now he _knew._ "You do. You really do." 

"Yes," Derek grit out. "Yes, fuck, will you shut up about it?" 

"No way in _hell,_ " Stiles said. "This is like fucking _Christmas,_ you don't understand. Can we?" 

"Right now?" Derek asked. 

"Yes, right now," Stiles said. "You might want to get me off, first, because while my refractory period is blessedly short, my staying power is still that of a healthy teenage boy." 

Derek looked pinched. Stiles rolled his eyes. "Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable." 

"It makes me a felon," Derek said. 

"Only if anyone press charges," Stiles said. "And there is no way I'm pressing charges." 

Derek rolled his eyes staring up at the ceiling as if Stiles was trying his patience. Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, trying to ignore how ridiculous it looked while he was buck-ass naked and hard as a rock. 

"Fine," Derek said. 

Stiles snorted. "Don't let me twist your arm, or nothing." 

Derek sighed, again, and visibly forced himself to calm. "I want this," he said at length. "I want you. I'm not--good at getting what I want." 

Stiles softened. "I know," he said. "Look. There are condoms and lube in the drawer, because I am nothing if not prepared. If you want to, get them. If not, don't. As long as we both get off, I'm happy." He leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to Derek's lips. "I told you I'd wait, and I meant it." 

Derek looked at him for a long moment. "I know," he said, just as quiet, then, bracing Stiles with one hand, reached over to Stiles's bedside table and pulled out the lube and a condoms. "No more waiting." Derek kept his momentum, moving Stiles and positioning him on the bed as Derek slid down, dragging his chest along Stiles’s cock. Stiles moaned, head falling back, and whimpered when Derek pulled away to lay on the bed.

Braced on one arm, Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles’s cock, and that alone felt better than pretty much anything ever, but then Derek opened his mouth and _licked_ and Stiles realized just how much better things could get.

“You…” Stiles trailed off, not sure what he was going to say, but knew he was staring at Derek with wild eyes, could feel the strain at the corners.

“You’re clean,” Derek said, obviously assuming that’s what Stiles was about to say. Maybe it was, Stiles wasn’t sure _what_ was happening in his own brain at the moment. “And I can’t get sick.”

“Good to know,” Stiles said.

Derek shifted. “Can I suck you now?”

“Fuck,” Stiles shuddered. “You can’t just say things like that, Derek, my heart— _Yes,_ please, God, suck my dick.”

Derek grinned at that, heh, _wolfishly,_ and wrapped his lips around Stiles’s cock. Stiles gasped, bit his hand to muffle the sounds. How had he never realized just how loud he was. His hips thrust, or they tried to, anyway. Derek , Stiles realized, was holding his hips still with the arm slung low across his pelvis. It meant he could move as much as he wanted and he wasn’t going to choke Derek. And move he did, half abortive movements that had him writing, breaking out in a sheen of sweat that darkened the hair at his temples, make the skin on his forehead glisten.

Then Derek did something with his tongue that had sparks shooting behind Stiles’s eyes, and he barely had enough time to warn Derek before he was coming, sparks lighting to full fireworks as he jerked. Derek continued to work him with his tongue, hot and wet and too good, until Stiles was twitching with the aftershocks.

Derek let Stiles slip from his mouth. Waiting until he had Stiles’s attention, Derek slowly licked his lips.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. Beautiful fucker didn’t even have the decency to be short of breath, though his face was flushed and his pupils were blown.

Derek crawled up the bed, covering Stiles’s body with his own, and Stiles kissed him eagerly, not caring that he tasted like Stiles’s spunk (It wasn’t the first time, anyway. What? He was curious!). They kissed until Stiles’s head began to swim and he pulled away, reluctantly.

“Where’s the lube? Where’s...?” Stiles asked, searching through the sheets, and that couldn’t be his voice. Stiles never sounded that breathy, unless he had run suicides, and the last time his voice had been that raspy he had been sick with strep. And those were two wonderful images to go with his sex voice, well done, Stiles. Derek didn’t seem to mind, however, if the way he huffed was any indication. He groped in the bed by Stiles’s left him and came up with the tube.

Stiles took it from him, and asked, “How do you want to do this?”

Derek looked Stiles in the eye for a long moment, then very deliberately rolled over onto his back, bearing his throat and belly. He pulled his knees, up, displaying himself, and Stiles was glad he had already come, because the sight alone was enough to make him shoot.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Okay, we’re gonna do this.” He looked around, thinking about every porn he had seen with anal play, every sex tip guide he had stumbled across looking for porn, and every one he had found when he had gone back for actual advice. He grabbed his spare pillow and folded it in half, placing it under Derek’s hips. Derek was red-faced, but his eyes never left Stiles and his cock was so hard it was leaking pre-come all over his chest.

Stiles squirted lube onto his fingers, and it was too much, way too much, but they had said there never _could_ be too much, so he warmed it as best he could and gently touched his fingers to Derek.

Derek jumped, hissed, but didn’t move away. “Sorry,” Stiles murmured, “’s cold,” and gently pressed in with a finger.

It was just like when he did this to himself, the familiar pressure and heat. It was nothing like when he did this to himself because it was so much _more._ This was _Derek_ that he was touching. Slowly, Stiles’s finger pressed all the way in. It was tight, so tight. Too tight.

“Relax,” Stiles said, running a hand in a gentle stroke down Derek’s thigh. “It’s okay.”

“I know that,” Derek grit out, but it was still a long minute before Stiles felt the pressure ease and he was able to move his finger, spreading the slick inside. He thrust a few times, slow and not too deep. Adding more lube, he searched with his finger, and—

Derek snarled, fangs flashing in his mouth as his hips bucked. Stiles rode out the motion, keeping very still, until.

“Do that again,” Derek commanded.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Stiles agreed, and ran his finger over that spot again. Derek bucked, but the wolf stayed away.

More lube, and a second finger, and Derek was panting. Stiles couldn’t look away; Derek had never looked so good, and it was _Stiles_ that made him look that way. Stiles’s cock twitched, and started to fill again.

Stiles made it to three fingers before Derek grabbed his wrist and grit out. “Enough. Please.”

“Say it,” Stiles said, curling his fingers.

Derek grunted. “Fuck me.”

Stiles nodded, and pulled away. More lube, this time on his own cock, then he was on his knees and guiding it to Derek’s slicked opening. He pressed forward, not quite sure of the pressure, but when he finally breached that first ring of muscle he shuddered, and waited, trembling.

“Say when,” Stiles grit out. “Please, fuck, you feel so good.”

“I’m not going to break,” Derek said. “Fuck me!”

Stiles hips snapped forward, sinking him in all the way, and Derek cried out, arching up to meet him. Stiles wrapped an arm under Derek’s back, gripping his shoulder as he thrust, toes scrabbling for traction. His other hand was braced on the bed, holding himself up. Rolling under him, Derek’s hand worked on his cock faster and harder than Stiles would have imagined. Derek grunted with every move, until Stiles shifted and the angle changed, and Derek howled as he came. Stiles had just enough sense to be glad it was a howl and not a _howl_ before he came himself in stuttering movement, collapsing in a heap on Derek’s heaving chest.

Derek’s arms shook as they wrapped around Stiles. After a long minute, Stiles broke the silence, speaking into Derek’s neck.

“We are _so_ doing that again.”

Derek’s breathing started to ease. “Gimmie another, like, twenty minutes,” he said.

Stiles just grinned.

***

"I want to go dancing," Lydia said. A week had passed since Stiles and Derek had, heh, _consummated_ their relationship, and Stiles found himself spending most of his time at Derek’s reading books of lore and studying for Deaton as Derek trained with his Betas. Lydia and Danny made good study buddies; Lydia was currently translating some of the more arcane texts and Danny was working on a database. It was a good system.

At the moment, however, Lydia and Stiles were taking a much deserved mental health break, and were watching the countdown of the “100 hottest beach bodies,” on E. "We should go dancing. Stiles," She curled her arm around his. "Come dancing with me, tonight."

"Oh, I would," Stiles said, pulling an exaggerated disappointed face. "But you have two man candies and I have plans, so..." He patted her hand. Lydia scowled.

"What do you mean, you have plans," Lydia said. "You never have plans." She narrowed her eyes. "And sex with Derek doesn't count as 'plans.'"

"A," Stiles said. "Sex with Derek totally counts as “plans.” It's a full time job, even. And B, that's not the plans I meant."

"What plans could Stiles possibly have?" Jackson drawled as he came in with Danny. Danny hesitated in the doorway, so briefly Stiles wasn't sure if he would have noticed if he wasn't looking for a reaction.

Lydia noticed.

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you know?" She demanded, letting Stiles go and stalking over to Danny. He threw his hands up, and glared at Jackson when the other boy backed out of the way. Lydia poked Danny in the chest, drawing his eyes to her. "Tell. Me."

"I promised," Danny said, looked at Stiles with panicked eyes. Lydia pressed her nail into Danny's skin, just hard enough to make him rock back before she dropped her hands.

"What is so secret that we can't know about it?" Lydia said, spinning and walking towards stiles. Her heels clicked on the hardwood and Stiles had a brief moment of déjà vu, he'd had this dream before. But it was just a dream, and Derek was a much better reality. "Is it a sex thing?" Lydia glared. "You just got together with Derek and you've got a secret sex thing?!"

"It's not a sex thing!" Stiles said. "Well--no, sex is part of it, but it's only a very small part of it. And Derek knows, anyway."

Lydia put her hands on her hips and Stiles sighed. Would it really be so bad if there were to know? They were _pack._ Was it really fair to keep this secret. Did he really want to?

He didn't, actually. Not anymore. Drag, Little Red, was a part of him now, and a part that he wanted to be open and honest about. Truthfully, he'd wanted it for a while now; he was just waiting for the trust.

"Six weeks ago, I won an amateur drag competition. The prize was a six-week gig as part of the show on Thursday nights. So, every Thursday, I perform as Little Red." Lydia stared, mouth in a picture-perfect "o" and Stiles felt a little thrill of satisfaction that he's managed to surprise her.

"You're a drag queen?" Jackson said, louder than he had to, just as the rest of the pack walked in.

"Who's a drag queen?" Scott asked, with such a look of innocent puzzlement that Stiles wanted to pinch his cheeks. One day, he would.

"Stiles," Jackson said.

"Oh," Scott said, then frowned. "Wait, what?"

Erica looked delighted, and Stiles knew there would be more than a few uncomfortable questions in his future. Boyd looked blank, surprise, and Alison looked more amused than anything else, though she was looking at Scott, who looked like he'd been asked to solve a word problem in German.

Isaac looked around at everybody. "You all need to work on your sense of smell," he said. "I've known for weeks."

"I _knew_ you smelled me!" Stiles crowed. Then he looked at Isaac, and frowned. "That's seriously creepy, dude, you _know_ that, right?"

Isaac shrugged, unconcerned.

Stiles rolled his eyes, and looked at Scott, who still looked confused. “Scott?” he asked, softly. As much as he wanted the pack to know, he had kinda wanted to tell Scott by himself, bro to bro.

Scott looked up at him. “Wait, is this why you’ve been smelling like the make-up counter at Macy’s?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, Scott.”

“Oh, good,” Scott said, relieved. He grinned. “Hey, do we get to see your show?”

Stiles frowned, wondering just what Scott _had_ been picturing, then consciously let the thought go. Sometimes, it was wiser to just accept Scott’s thought process and move on. To do otherwise would only lead to an aneurism. Then, what Scott was really asking sank in, and he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Tonight, actually. It’s my last night. You should all come and watch me wow the crowd.”

“We’ll be there,” Derek said from behind the couch and Stiles squeaked, flailing.

“Dude!” he protested. “Not cool!”

“Sorry,” Derek said, but he didn’t look sorry. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You bet your ass, you will,” Stiles muttered.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “And we’re leaving. We’ll see you at the club tonight, Stiles.”

“But just got here,” Scott said. Allison whispered something in Scott’s ear, and his grin turned dopey. “Okay,” he said, and practically dragged Allison away.

“Come on, boys,” Lydia said, grabbing Jackson and Danny each by the arm. “One show by Stiles is enough for today.”

“I don’t mind,” Erica said, sitting backward on a kitchen chair.

“I do,” Boyd said, and coaxed a pouting Erica back out of the house.

Isaac smiled at them for a moment, and followed the other two back out into the woods. Stiles rolled his eyes. He knew he’d be picking bits of leaves and twigs out of their hair later.

“Now,” Stiles said. “I believe you have an apology to make.”

Derek’s hand crept down over Stiles’s chest as Derek leaned over the back of the couch. “I do, indeed.”

***

Stiles was humming as he beat his mug.

“You,” Sugar said, dropping into the chair next to him. “Got laid.”

“Oh, yes,” Stiles said. “Several times. In many positions.” He grinned at Sugar in the mirror. “I had a checklist.”

“I’m sure you did,” Crystal said, coming up behind him. “I know I would have.”

“So,” Barb said from across the room. “Give us the deets!”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Stiles said, pulling the skin under his eye taught to better apply the lid liner.

“Honey, you’re not a gentleman. You’re a drag queen. And drag queens kiss and tell everybody.” Lois added.

“Did you top or bottom?” Sugar asked. The others protested, booing at her, and she held up her hands. “What? Inquiring minds.”

“Yes,” Stiles said. Later that first night, Stiles had his turn on the bottom. He honestly wasn’t sure which he liked more, but he was okay with that. He’d develop a preference, or not. At the moment, it was enough just to be with Derek.

“And?” Crystal said, rolling her hand for him to continue.

“And I’m thankful as hell for Gatorade and family-size bottles of lube,” Stiles said, sending the girls into peels of raucous laughter. “I’m serious!”

“We know, hunty,” Crystal said. “Go gurl.”

Stiles grinned, and started to blend. “In other news, I told my friends about this,” he said.

The dressing room got very quiet. “Oh?” Crystal said. “And how did that go?”

“Good,” Stiles said, and the room breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re actually going to be here tonight. All of them.”

“Well good for you,” Barb said, and knocked their shoulders together.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “It really is.”

“Speaking of,” Crystal said. “I had a talk with the owner today. He wants to extend your contract, give you a standing weekly spot. You in?”

Stiles grinned. “Fuck yeah, I’m in.” Sugar squealed, hugging him, and the others joined in, group-hugging in front of the mirror.

Looking at his reflection, Stiles let his grin fade into something softer, yet more secure. At peace.

***

It was unlike any other song he’d done to date. There were no drums, no powerhouse vocals or anthem like beats. There was just the guitar, a cello, and the voice.

It felt right, in the end, to have something so stripped down. Stiles felt stripped down himself, reduced to his base elements over these past weeks, and rebuilt into something _better_.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play.

The lights rose with the first strums of the guitar, the guitar like the one Little Red wore strapped across her back. She faced away from the audience, waiting for them to see the outline of the instrument, the heavy fall of the black leather coat with the fold of a red hood at the back of her neck, the long line of bare leg underneath that ended in a pair of spiked boots.

Little Red looked over her shoulder, slowly turning to show the cropped red hoodie and cut off denim shorts she wore. It raised a hooting cheer, as she knew it would, but she only had eyes for Derek, standing in the back with the rest of her pack. Her makeup was flawless, sharply shaded to give her a more lupine look, with red contacts that Stiles couldn’t pass up. Even her nails were painted a pointed red. A Wolf in Red’s clothing, and she bared her teeth as she sang, enticing;

 _Hey there Little Red Riding Hood,_  
You sure are looking good.  
You're everything a big bad wolf could want. 

Little Red walked up to the edge of the stage, playing with the hands that reached out to her. Shaking her finger at one man dressed in nothing more than blue briefs and glitter.

 _Little Red Riding Hood_  
I don't think little big girls should  
Go walking in these spooky old woods alone. 

Little Red shook her head, like briefs man had disappointed her, and he clutched his heart in mock heartbreak. The next eyes Little Red looked into were Dereks, alpha red at the edges, and she sang to him.

_What big eyes you have,_  
The kind of eyes that drive wolves mad.  
So just to see that you don't get chased  
I think I ought to walk with you for a ways. 

Derek was shaking his head, but he was amused by Stiles’s choice of song, and Stiles knew it. There had always been a blurring of who, exactly, was protecting who, and this just highlighted it.

_What full lips you have._  
They're sure to lure someone bad.  
So until you get to grandma's place  
I think you ought to walk with me and be safe. 

Because those lips had lured someone bad, a lot of someones, actually, but Stiles wasn’t going to let that happen, not anymore. Those lips where _his_ now, damnit. Derek’s eyes widened, like he knew just was Stiles was telling him.

_I'm gonna keep my sheep suit on  
Until I'm sure that you've been shown _

_That I can be trusted walking with you alone._

After all, it wasn’t _Derek_ wearing the sheep suit around here. Derek wore his wolf for all to see.

_Little Red Riding Hood_  
I'd like to hold you if I could  
But you might think I'm a big bad wolf so I won't. 

Stiles winked, and Derek snorted. Yeah, the not holding thing really wasn’t for them.

_What a big heart I have-the better to love you with._  
Little Red Riding Hood  
Even bad wolves can be good.  
I'll try to be satisfied just to walk close by your side.  
Maybe you'll see things my way before we get to grandma's place. 

Derek softened at that, because that was Stiles singing through Little Red. Stiles did have a big heart, and he did love Derek. And together, these bad wolves would be the best Beacon Hills had ever seen.

_Little Red Riding Hood_  
You sure are looking good  
You're everything that a big bad wolf could want. 

The lyrics ended with a flourish of the guitar and Little Red struck a pose on stage, arms cross and head bowed. The lights went down, and the house went wild.

Stiles grinned as he jogged off stage. Epic.

***

Instead of changing and rushing out like had the past few weeks, and with Derek waiting for him Stiles didn’t think he could be blamed, Stiles checked his makeup and adjusted his tits, and joined the girls in the bar.

Of course, the girls had found the pack. Little Sugar had sidled up to Jackson, much to Danny and Lydia’s provisionary amusement. Lois was chatting with Scott and Allison. Barb had situated herself in with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, and nobody seemed too keen to kick her out. Huh.

Crystal was talking to Derek, arms folded and sass in full force. Luckily, Derek seemed calm and unthreatened, so Stiles sidled up and stole a kiss as Derek wrapped an arm around Stiles’s waist. Stiles hummed into the kiss. For the first time, he was solidly taller than Derek. He rather liked it. Derek didn’t seem to mind, either.

“Hi,” Stiles said, pulling away.

“Hi,” Derek said, and gently tapped their foreheads together.

“Hey, Batman!” Erica called out. “I thought drag was more Robin’s thing?”

“Who do you think taught Robin?” Stiles called back. “Alfred?”

“Nah,” Crystal said, waving her hand. “It was Superman, obviously.”

Stiles looked startled at that, but not for long. He grinned. “Crystal, you know that’s why you’re my favorite, right?”

“No,” Crystal said. “I’m your favorite because I actually answer your questions and let you borrow my wigs without asking.”

“And you’re a doll for it, really,” Stiles insisted. “I see you’ve met everyone.”

“Of course,” Crystal said, moving to the bar to stand next to Stiles. “I remember a lot of them from that party last year. Especially the red head.”

“Lydia,” Stiles said, and as if summoned, Lydia walked up to them.

She looked Stiles over, raising an eyebrow at his shoes. She sniffed, and Stiles braced himself for some sort of scathing fashion commentary, but instead she said, “You still owe me a dance.”

Stiles blinked at her for a second before barking out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He turned to Derek and kissed his cheek, before being drawn away.

Learning to walk in heels, learning choreography, had done wonders for Stiles’s sense of rhythm. So, when Lydia started to move to the music, Stiles found that not only could he keep up, he could match her move for move. Lydia nodded at him, her face impressed.

“You look good,” She said between verses, and Stiles grinned at her.

“Thanks,” he said. “The girls worked hard to turn me out like this the first time. I’ve just been doing maintenance.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “You speak like that’s not what all style is,” she said. “Though, I didn’t know they made those shoes in your size.”

Stiles grinned. “Happy accident,” he said. “I stumbled across them at a thrift shop.”

Lydia looked impressed. “I have the same pair,” she said. “It’s a good thing I didn’t wear them, tonight. I almost did.”

Stiles didn’t say that he knew she had a pair, that he based all of his recent clothes purchases on a sliding scale of “What Would Lydia Do.” But he did pull Lydia in and spin her around, leading for just a moment until they were back in the mostly formless gyrations of the dance floor.

“It’s more than the clothes,” Lydia said after a long moment. “You look like yourself again. It’s good.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, once he could swallow around the emotions in his throat.

A hand tapped his shoulder and Stiles turned to see Derek. He grinned and they melted together, moving and swaying to the music. Lydia huffed, but Danny was there. Jackson popped up a moment later, and yeah, there was totally something going on with those three.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, and thought the night couldn’t get any more perfect.

Then the lights came on, and the DJ told everyone to please, calmly, evacuate the building, order of the Sheriff’s office. Stiles hung his head, banging it gently on Derek’s collarbone.

No point in arguing; Stiles took Derek’s hand and they moved through the crowd, picking up the rest of the pack and the other queens as they left the building.

Stiles shivered as he stepped outside, grateful for the leather around his shoulders. It wasn’t terribly cold out, still warm, actually, but it felt freezing after the heat of the club. Stiles knew every place where the stage lights had made him sweat. He shivered again.

Derek’s arm went around Stiles’s shoulders, and he found himself leaning into the heat.

Everyone gathered in small groups as they walked out of the club, nobody allowed to leave but no one feeling like mingling without the pulsing beat and strobe light. Stiles’s group was the largest he could see, containing queens and werewolves both.

Naturally, their group attracted the Sheriff’s attention first.

“Okay, we’re here for—Derek?” The Sheriff blinked at Derek, then focused on Stiles. Stiles grinned, feeling his stomach drop. “Stiles?!”

“It’s Little Red, here,” Stiles said, quietly.

The Sheriff looked him over, then covered his eyes with his hand. “Stiles… _what_ are you wearing?”

Shit. Stiles _had_ planned on telling his dad about this. In the future. Far in the future. When they could look back fondly and his dad couldn’t…well, Stiles really couldn’t see his dad behaving like he lived on Lifetime, but he’d react! There was a difference between having a gay son, and having a gay son who was also a drag queen.

“He’s in drag,” Lois drawled. The tallest of the queens, she loomed a bit when she folded her arms. Stiles froze. He had forgotten they were all there. When he saw the other queens stand taller, Stiles felt both touched that they would stand up for him, and at the same time wanted them to stay out of it. “He’s our star performer.”

“You have a problem with drag, Sheriff?” Crystal said, mild as could be, and Stiles winced because that meant it was as far from mild.

The Sheriff turned his incredulous look to Crystal. “No,” he said, stretching out the word like he had no idea where Crystal had gotten that idea, and the air of menacing authority shifted, changed to something closer to when the Sheriff caught Stiles and Scott doing something vaguely misdemeanor-ish. Stiles felt himself relax, just a fraction. “I have a problem with my kid wearing shorts _that_ short in _public._ Especially,” he turned his head to look at Stiles. “Since he’s only seventeen, and shouldn’t be here in the first place.” Crystal and Lois backed up, surprised.

“Dad!” Stiles protested, but the Sheriff raised his hand.

“I’m not going to ask how you or your friends got in, if I don’t know there was nothing I could do about it and that’s fine by me. I’m not going to ask how you got into this. I am going to insist that you go home now, and that the next time I see you, your hemline is at your knee.”

“Wah—“ Stiles gestured wildly with his arms. “Dad!”

“You’re starting to repeat yourself,” the Sheriff said. “Home, Stiles.” He looked at Derek. “Make sure he gets there.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said. Stiles tisked, and let his head fall back.

The Sheriff looked at the rest of the pack, and one by one they agreed to leave. The queens watched and Stiles just _knew_ he’d be fuel for the rumor mill for the next month. The Sheriff turned to leave, but paused.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said, turning. “The next time you have a show, I better have a damned ticket.” With that, the Sheriff turned, and went to talk to another group of men, grumbling that “damned right, my kid is a star.”

“Dude,” Scott said, quietly. It summed it up pretty well.

Stiles started to laugh, gentle chuckles that shook his shoulders. He had to talk to the manager, work something out due to his age and sign the contract. School would be starting soon, and that meant trouble probably wasn’t far behind. But right now, in this moment, Stiles was happy.

 _Doing what I do for a living has never been easy. I’ve had to fight countless battles in this game that the public has no idea ever happened. But, I just pick myself up and carry on. I Carry On._  
—RuPaul

 _Whatever you proclaim as your identity here in the material realm is also your drag. You are not your religion. You are not your skin color. You are not your gender, your politics, your career, or your marital status. You are none of the superficial things that this world deems important. The real you is the energy force that created the entire universe!_

—RuPaul _Workin’ It! RuPaul’s Guide to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Style_

_We're born naked, and the rest is drag._

―RuPaul, _Lettin It All Hang Out: An Autobiography_


	8. Epilogue: Let's Do It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes on the sly you do it/maybe even you and I might do it/Let's do it/ Let's fall in love!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to proxydialogue for the last minute beta. 
> 
> This is it, you guys! Story's over. There may be a few one-shots in this world in the future, but for now: Sashay Away. 
> 
> 'Cause if you can't love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love somebody else? Can I get an Amen? 
> 
> _Amen_

Stiles leaned into Derek’s side as the movie started. On screen, Agent Coulson met Samuel L Jackson—because it didn’t matter who his character was; he was Samuel L Motherfuckin’ Jackson. Derek tightened his grip around Stiles’s shoulders, fingers curling against the soft skin of Stiles’s arm. Turning his head, Stiles caught Dereks’ mouth in a soft kiss that quickly grew heated as Derek leaned in. He breathed in sharply, fingers and toes curling and—

“Aw, seriously? Are you two going to suck face the entire movie?” Jackson said.

Stiles pulled back to see Erica chuck a handful of popcorn at Jackson. “I was watching that!”

“Your voyeuristic tendencies are both disturbing and hot,” Stiles said. “Which is disturbing in and of itself.” Erica just grinned and snuggled into Boyd’s side. Isaac smiled fondly at them, but his foot was brushing against Danny’s in a way that was far too casual to not be deliberate. Stiles raised an eyebrow. _That_ was interesting. Lydia, when he looked, appeared unconcerned, curled into Jackson in such a way that Jackson was really curled into her.

She was gaining Isaac, not losing Danny; of course she looked calm. It was a damn good thing Lydia was on their side. She’d make a powerful alpha if she ever went wolf.

Lydia looked at Stiles, meeting his gaze, and just smiled her Prom Queen smile—with just enough actual smile to make Stiles relax. Lydia was happy.

And speaking of happy…

Stiles kicked Scott when his kisses with Allison started to really verge on indecent.

If Stiles wasn’t getting no pack-public love, ain’t nobody getting no pack-public love.

Scott and Allison gave him near identical sheepish-but-not-really looks. They really were made for each other.

On the TV, Loki was being his crazy-ass self, and Stiles snickered. If Derek was the Hulk, and Stiles was Iron Man—because face it, he was totally Tony Stark: the early werewolf years—that make Uncle Creeper Loki…which made his Boyd-is-Thor theory very interesting.

Scott and Isaac started to tussle, knocking into Jackson, who snapped at them, and Erica and Boyd, who joined in. It was all very puppies at play, and Stiles snickered at Derek’s resigned sigh.

Now—Lydia was Black Widow, using her intelligence against other’s expectations. He guessed Isaac could be Hawkeye. Danny was Coulson. Shut up, he totally was. Everybody loves Coulson. Everybody loves Danny. Math, done. Erica was…Maria Hill? Ms. Marvel? Maybe _Erica_ was Natasha and Lydia was Pepper. That made more sense. Erica was much more likely to beat someone up with brute force and Lydia could tear down nations with her quick mouth. Allison could be—no, if Scott was Cap (asthmatic given super abilities and fighting for right? Totally Cap), then Allison was Peggy.

It was entirely possible that he had given this more than a little thought. Especially Jackson, whose original assessment (Harry Osborne; rich kid who’s desperate play for power/acceptance/daddy issues turns him into a monster), no longer fit. Maybe he was Angel? No way in hell he was Wolverine.

And that meant Stiles’s Dad was—

“Stiles?”

Here. _Crap!_

Stiles felt Derek stiffen beneath him, and a low ball of dread formed in the pit of his stomach.

Looking down, Stiles saw Scott, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, wolfed-out and frozen mid-skirmish. Erica had her mouth around Isaac’s forearm. Scott’s claws were flexed close to Boyd’s chest.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said, voice falsely bright. “You’re home early.” Scott’s yellowed eyes were very wide as he stared at a spot behind Stiles’s head.

“Not by a lot,” his dad said. “I was going to make burgers, but since your pack is here, how about pizza? Meat-lovers?”

Slowly, Stiles turned to look at his dad, who had the kind of smug shit-eating grin that Stiles usually only saw in the mirror.

“You _know_?” he squeaked. Manly. Manily. Squeaked like a Man.

“Stiles, you belong to a pack of werewolves. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Yes!” Stiles said, struggling to stand and face his father. Derek stood with him, and Stiles was grateful for the support. “Because—because _werewolves!_ ”

“Son,” his dad said. “I’m the sheriff of _Beacon Hills._ I’ve lived here all my life. Most folks, if they’re not in it, are willfully blind to it. It helps to keep kids with too much brain and not enough sense from getting involved.” And that was a pointed comment right at Stiles’s life choices. “Life’s just…easier that way.” He raised an eyebrow at Derek. “You know, when they don’t have to explain supernatural attacks to people who have no clue and can’t know. Or want to stay off the Argents’ radar.” He paused, and looked at Allison. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Now,” he said. “How many pizzas?”

Derek cleared his throat. “We usually order eight,” he said. “There are five of us here who can eat a whole pizza by themselves, and that leaves three for everyone else.”

Stiles snickered as his dad mouthed ‘eight? _eight!_ ’ and sat back down. He knew he and his dad would have to have a long talk later about _secrets, the keeping of_ in respect to creatures of the night and Stiles’s safety, and that neither of them were really going to like what the other had to say, but for right now, he was willing to just chill with his pack, and let his dad foot the bill for pizza.

Speaking of.

“And a whole wheat crust for you!” he called out.

“My money, my order!” his dad yelled back, but a few moments later, Derek nuzzled against his ear and whispered;

“He ordered one of the veggies with whole wheat.”

“Good,” Stiles muttered back, and settled in to watch the movie, wondering if it was in poor taste to get Crystal a thank you bouquet of chocolate covered bananas, and if “poor taste” was a vote for or against.

***

Crystal loved the [ bananas.](%E2%80%9D)

She loved making Stiles eat them in front of Derek even more.

Crystal was a horrible, wonderful influence, and Stiles loved her for it. Especially when she helped him put Scott in drag for a one-night-only double-act at the club.

The entire pack was in the audience, as was his Dad, and Stiles was just grateful that his costume meant pants, and not short shorts or a miniskirt. Granted, the pants were more holes than cloth, showing off the neon orange fishnets underneath, but his shirt was a plain old tee shirt, the one with the bulls-eye. That had to count for something, right?

Stiles had dyed his hair platinum for this, knowing it would grow quickly, and sat very still as Barb attached random extensions, to give him that early-90s post-apocalyptic alternative look. Behind the screen, Scott yelped and Crystal chastised him for being such a baby. Stiles grinned into the mirror. It wasn’t his fault that Scott never bothered to ask for more detail about tucking.

Scott walked out from behind the screen his—heh—tail between his legs, and meekly began to pull on the leggings he would wear on stage. It was a compromise, since Scott wouldn’t shave and Stiles wouldn’t let him go on stage with bare hairy legs. Scott wiggled into the blue jumpsuit, cut so that the pants were shorts, and let the top hang as he tried to put on a bra.

Stiles could help, but it was more fun to watch. Bra, then white tank top, then over to the counter to paint his face. Here, Stiles would help, and Scott waited for Barb to finish the last piece of hair.

“You ready?” Stiles asked.

“I need you to make me a woman,” Scott said, grinning back.

“I have been waiting so long to hear you say that,” Stiles quoted back at him, and Lois snickered.

“If you knew how many queens I’ve met who cite _Mrs. Doubtfire_ as their first exposure to drag…” she said.

Stiles grabbed some hair clips and started to pin Scott’s hair down. “Trust me,” he said to Scott. “I will make you beautiful.”

***

Stiles grabbed Scott’s hand, pulling it away from his wig.

“Sorry,” Scott whispered. “This is weird. All I can smell is wax and baby powder. And glue.”

“Drag queen,” Stiles said back, and Scott shifted, adjusting the strap of his guitar. It wasn’t plugged in to anything, and Scott’s press on nails wouldn’t let him play, anyway, but Stiles had to admire the showmanship.

“Ladies and Gentleman, Tank Girl and Jet Girl!”

Stiles burst from the wings, letting Little Red strut until he hit center stage and punched the air, mouthing the words along with the track, “Pa-pa-pa Pow!”

Scott, and he was Scott not matter how much he looked like Jet Girl, bounded out after him, his werewolf reflexes really the only thing keeping him on his heels. Still, he hit his mark, and began to “play” as the music started. Stiles looked out at the audience—at Derek—nodded at Scott, and sang.

_When the little bluebird_  
Who has never said a word  
Starts to sing Spring 

Derek rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. Well, he was smiling just wide enough to show his teeth, which, for Derek, was a grin. He was getting better. 

Scott bounced, pointed out at Allison, and sang his verse.

_When the little bluebell_  
At the bottom of the dell  
Starts to ring Ding dong 

and Stiles cut in,

_Ding dong_

and took the next verse.

_When the little blue clerk  
In the middle of his work_

and was joined by Scott. And it felt like it used to between them; the two of them goofing off and playing pretend. Only this time, they were singing to someone other than each other; they were singing to someone they loved. 

So they sang, together, alternating—it didn’t matter. They were there, celebrating. 

_Starts a tune to the moon up above_  
It is nature that is all  
Simply telling us to fall in love 

_And that's why birds do it, bees do it_  
Even educated fleas do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love 

_Cold Cape Cod clams, 'gainst their wish, do it_  
Even lazy jellyfish do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love 

_I've heard that lizards and frogs do it_  
Layin' on a rock  
They say that roosters do it  
With a doodle and cock 

_Some Argentines, without means do it_  
I hear even Boston beans do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love 

_When the little bluebird_  
Who has never said a word  
starts to sing Spring spring spring 

_When the little bluebell_  
At the bottom of the dell  
Starts to ring Ding ding ding 

_When the little blue clerk_  
In the middle of his work  
Starts a tune 

_The most refined lady bugs do it_  
When a gentleman calls  
Moths in your rugs they do it  
What's the use of moth balls 

_The chimpanzees in the zoos do it,_  
Some courageous kangaroos do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love 

_I'm sure sometimes on the sly you do it_  
Maybe even you and I might do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Saw Lon Cheney Jr Walking With The (Drag) Queen (Cover Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575516) by [justaddgigi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaddgigi/pseuds/justaddgigi), [scarletjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi)




End file.
